


Shadowplay

by sospes



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Character Death, Espionage, Explicit Sexual Content, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Or Is It?, Prostitution, Spies & Secret Agents, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:47:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22952803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes
Summary: Geralt returns to Oxenfurt on a bright May morning to find flowers laid outside Jaskier's rooms and a fresh grave in the cemetery.Except, as Geralt is about to learn, in Jaskier's world things are never quite what they seem.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 346
Kudos: 1755





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by a comment that ivyraven left on _[What Remains](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22604791)_ , and it will not get out of my head. 
> 
> I am playing fast and loose with canon here, and keep an eye on the tags in future chapters.

It’s a sunny morning in late May when Geralt rides into Oxenfurt, Roach’s hooves clipping loud on the cobbled streets. It’s early enough that the city is quiet: the students of the university are still rolled up in their comfortable beds, and the hawkers and salespeople of the town, so dependent on the students’ schedules, haven’t yet reached their fever pitch of marketing and selling. Geralt likes Oxenfurt the best like this, when the sunlight gleams uninterrupted off the golden stone and the wind rustles through the carefully-cultivated gardens, green and bright. 

Roach knows her way to the university’s stables without Geralt’s help, and she picks her way through the winding streets with ease. Geralt leaves her munching hay and being rubbed down by the most trustworthy-looking of the stablehands, a young woman with work-worn hands and a soft manner with the other horses, and slips into the quads and cloisters of the university itself. He passes a few early risers sitting out on the lawns, a student with a pile of books beside him on the grass, a professor on a stone bench marking essays, but for the most part, the university is empty. Which suits him: he might have become something of a regular here since Jaskier took up teaching instead of adventuring, since his hair started to streak with silver and those crows-feet started to deepen into valleys at the corners of his eyes, but he’s still a Witcher. He still gets odd looks, suspicious glances. Once in a while it’s nice to be pretend to just be, well, Professor Pancratz’s old friend. 

Geralt’s heart warms a little in his chest at that thought. _Friend_ is one word for it. 

The last time he saw Jaskier was a little over three weeks ago, naked and lazy under the soft covers of his bed. Geralt kissed him before he left and almost ended up getting dragged back to bed, Jaskier’s hands wound tight in his hair, bedsheets slipping down to pool around his waist, exposing the still-lean lines of his chest, his hips. Geralt pushed him back with a quiet laugh, and said, “I have to go, Jaskier.”

Jaskier waved a hand at him, that morning, a smile in his eyes as he sprawled back against the pillows. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Monsters to kill, damsels to save. I get it. Just come back soon?” 

Geralt doesn’t quite smile at the memory, but he does quicken his pace through the echoing cloisters. 

Jaskier’s rooms are on the ground floor of one of the central staircases, and by now Geralt knows he could find his way there blindfolded. He pads through the university, saddlebags slung over one shoulder, enjoying the quiet, the calm, the peace. There’s a strange smell in the air, overwhelmingly floral but shot through with a note of decay – almost like… rotting flowers. Which is odd, because Oxenfurt’s gardeners take exquisite pride in their work—Geralt knows, having once spent an evening getting very drunk with two of the landscapers while Jaskier played some esoteric concert that he had no interest in attending—so it would be strange for any of their gardens to lapse into such disrepair. Plus, he’s not seen any other indications that their standards are slipping. 

Geralt rounds the corner into Jaskier’s quad, and pauses. 

There are flowers all around the entrance to Jaskier’s staircase, lilies and roses, wildflowers and orchids, some bound with ribbons, others left there singly or in great heaps. They’ve clearly been there some time, judging by the state of some of the blossoms and that sickly-sweet odour of decay that’s staining even thicker in Geralt’s nostrils, and no one’s thought to clear them away. It’s not just flowers, either: there are candles burned down to little more than stubs, pages of handwritten sheet music worked between the stems of the flowers, silk handkerchiefs torn by the elements, scraps of parchment covered in tight-packed handwriting. They fill the flowerbed under Jaskier’s window, cover the step in front of the staircase door, overflow onto the lawn onto the lawn of the quad. 

A sick feeling twists Geralt’s gut. He knows a memorial when he sees one. 

He covers the ground between him and the mound of grief in a few steps, wrenches the door open and thunders inside. The door to Jaskier’s rooms is locked—not good, Jaskier never locks his door, _not good_ —but Geralt’s has had a key since Jaskier moved in, not that he’s ever had to use it, and he fumbles it out of his bags, shoves it in the lock, turns, pushes, and he knows what he’s doing to find before he finds it. 

The sofa and the armchair in Jaskier’s teaching room are covered in sheets. The desk in his study is unnaturally tidy, like it’s been straightened by an unfamiliar hand. His bed is neatly made, blankets straight and pillows orderly, which just looks so wrong because Jaskier likes his bed to be a veritable nest – seriously, Geralt has seen griffins with tidier sleeping places. And there, on the table in the sitting room that they used to spend the wintry evenings in, sharing a bottle and each other’s warmth, lies Jaskier’s lute, dusty and untouched. 

Geralt’s heart is pounding in his chest. “Jaskier?” he barks, pulling the blankets off the bed like he’s going to find him hiding under there, still naked, still laughing, still waiting for Geralt to come back. “ _Jaskier!_ ”

“Geralt.” 

For half a second, Geralt thinks he’s got this all wrong, but then he turns towards the voice and it’s not Jaskier. “Shani,” he says, flat and borderline desperate. 

Shani, one of Jaskier’s friends, professor of medicine, tall and solemn, stands there in the ashes of Jaskier’s life. “The porters told me you were here,” she says, her voice heavy. “We tried to contact you, Geralt, but he was the only one who knew where you were, and—” She breaks off, takes a breath. 

“Where is he?” Geralt growls, even though he knows the answer. 

Shani comes to him, takes his hand, squeezes. “Come with me,” she says softly. “I’ll tell you everything.” 

“Where is he?” Geralt repeats, heart throbbing, twisting. 

“He’s gone,” Shani says gently, softly, mournfully, and pulls Geralt away. “I’m so sorry.” 

Numbness is creeping slowly through Geralt’s chest. “No,” he says. “No, he can’t be.”

Shani’s grip is firm and her tone insistent. “Come with me, Geralt,” she says. “I’ve cancelled my teaching for the day. Come with me, and I’ll explain.” 

Geralt doesn’t know what else to do but follow. 

Shani takes him to her own suite of rooms, only the next quad over. She settles him down in a leather armchair he’s spent drunken evenings before, pulls a demijohn of vodka out of the alcohol stash he’s watched Jaskier drink dry, and pours them both large glasses. “I know it’s early, but I think we both need it,” Shani says, pressing the glass into Geralt’s hand. 

“What happened?” Geralt says, his voice sounding oddly faraway. 

Shani drinks half her glass in one, presses the back of her hand to her mouth for a second, then sighs. “A fever,” she says. “Sudden and unexpected. He started showing symptoms in the middle of dinner one night – he was nauseous, flushed, dizzy. He just thought he’d drunk too much, so went to bed.” She drinks again, slower. “I was woken at midnight,” she says, “by one of the students who lives on the same staircase. Jaskier managed to get far enough to knock on her door, but then he collapsed in the stairwell, insensible.” She finishes her glass, jaw tight. “I did everything I could,” she says quietly, “but it was too quick. He was dead before sunrise.” She pauses, just for a moment. “It was relatively painless,” she says. “If that helps.” 

Geralt listens like he’s in a dream. “When?” 

“A few days after you were last here,” Shani answers. “The Provost sent riders to try to bring you back, but Jaskier was the only one who knew where you’d gone. They couldn’t find you.” 

“I was in the mountains,” Geralt says absently. 

“Well,” Shani says. “I guess they didn’t look there.” 

They sit in awkward, painful silence for a long moment. Geralt can’t quite shake the feeling that none of this is real, that this is some strange nightmare and he’s going to wake any second – but the leather of the chair is cracked and worn under his hands, the glass is cool against his skin. He can hear the shouts of students across the quad, the rattling of footsteps against the stones.

“He’s buried in the university cemetery,” Shani says. “I can take you there, if you’d like.” 

Slowly, deliberately, Geralt raises the glass of vodka to his lips and drinks it in one long swallow. He puts the glass down, reaches for the demijohn, and pours himself and Shani another. 

“That works, too,” Shani mutters. 

They’re both drunk by mid morning. 

After Shani has vomited into her washbowl and Geralt has successfully managed to stop the world from spinning quite so vigorously, Shani leads him to where Jaskier is buried. She’s still looking a little green around the edges so Geralt pauses, looks at her, says, “You don’t have to come. I can find my way from here.” 

She nods, arms folded tight across her belly. “I’ll leave my rooms unlocked,” she says. “You can sleep on the sofa if you want.”

Geralt thinks about Jaskier’s bed, empty and so neatly made, and nods. “Thank you,” he says. 

Shani reaches out, squeezes his forearm. “I’m so sorry,” she says again, and it must be the hundredth time she’s said it today but it still cuts as fiercely as it did the first time. 

Geralt walks slowly among the graves, his head still fuzzy from the afterimage of the vodka – which really doesn’t help the unreality of the whole situation. He was going to come to Oxenfurt, spend the days with Jaskier in the university and the nights with Jaskier in his bed, and it would be easy and perfect and they would make memories that would tide him over the weeks and months that they would spend apart. He wasn’t supposed to come back to dead flowers on Jaskier’s doorstep and Jaskier dead in the ground. 

He kneels in front of Jaskier’s gravestone, still feeling like he’s halfway dreaming. 

He’s still there when the sun sets, hours later. 

In the darkness of the night, Geralt’s hands fumble to his neck, almost unbidden. He separates out the chain of his medallion from the second chain that hangs there, slimmer, lighter, then tugs the amulet free and presses it tight within his shaking hand. “Yen,” he says to the silence of the night, to the tiny magical connection in the heart of the amethyst, and maybe he should say something more, say something more to the amulet that he’s only really supposed to use in a life or death situation, but there are no words, how could there ever be any words? “ _Yen_.” 

The amulet warms in response, and a handful of heartbeats later a portal opens behind him, darker than the darkness of the night. Yennefer steps through into the graveyard, forehead furrowed, and she conjures a ball of flame in her palm. “Geralt?” she asks, then she sees him on his knees in the dirt and her eyes go wide. “ _Geralt_. Are you hurt?” 

Geralt doesn’t have the words to answer that question. 

“Geralt?” Yennefer says again, and then she follows his gaze, to the gravestone, to the name. 

Geralt feels her hand twist in the fabric of his shirt, tight, tense. “Oh, Geralt,” she says, softer than the breeze in the trees. 

Geralt finds his tongue. “Save him,” he says, hoarse, croaky, and he might not be drunk anymore but he’s not in control of his voice, not in control of what he’s saying. “Please, Yen, bring him back.” 

“You know I can’t, Geralt,” Yennefer says quietly. 

“Yes, you can,” Geralt says thickly. “I know you can.” 

“It isn’t permitted.” 

“I don’t _care_ if it’s permitted or not,” Geralt says, louder, getting louder. “Bring him back, Yen.”

Yennefer is quiet for a moment, and then she takes his chin in her hand, turns him to face her. Her violet eyes are bright and burning. “Even if I could,” she says. “Even if I _wanted_ to, you wouldn’t like what came back. It wouldn’t be him.”

“ _I don’t care,_ ” Geralt roars, all of a sudden. “I don’t care,” he says again, quieter, and Yennefer runs her hand through his hair, presses her forehead against his, holds him still. “Yen,” he says, barely more than a breath. 

Yennefer doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to say a word. 

She goes with him back to Shani’s room, makes him lie back on the sofa when all he wants to do is sit and drink more, draws a blanket over him and then rests her hand on his forehead, whispers, “Sleep”, and presses the quiet into his mind. He doesn’t want to go, doesn’t want to close his eyes, but the pressure of her spell is steel within a velvet glove and he can’t resist. “Rest,” she murmurs, and Geralt sleeps. 

When he wakes, his mouth tastes like the inside of an old sock and Jaskier is still dead. 

Geralt doesn’t stay long in Oxenfurt. There’s no work here, for one, and he’s never liked cities. Too many people, too many social customs, too many watchful eyes and far too many awkward encounters waiting to happen. Too many sympathetic gazes. Too many people who think they understand. 

Shani watches him saddle Roach. “You will always be welcome here, Geralt,” she says when he’s swung himself into the saddle. “No matter what.” 

“Thanks,” Geralt says, heavy and gruff, and snaps Roach’s reins. 

He wanders for a while, partly aimless, partly following a trail of monsters and contracts that keeps him in enough coin to have moderately comfortable beds and vaguely warm meals. He’s not greeted with smiles and handshakes, he’s greeted with silent stares and monosyllables, but it’s better than it once was. It’s better than it was before Jaskier, before Jaskier decided yes, this one, I’m going to devote myself to this one, before Jaskier gave his life to Geralt, before Jaskier trusted him and before Geralt _failed him._

Geralt sits in the back of a small, ratty tavern, blood still matted in his hair, and drinks until the gap in his heart is a little easier to forget. 

He dreams of Jaskier, sometimes, in that bed in Oxenfurt. There’s silver in his hair and wrinkles around his eyes, his bright blue eyes, and he pulls Geralt into the nest of blankets with him, brackets his hands across his skin, kisses the old scars and the new scars, kisses him everywhere he can reach. Geralt wakes from those dreams with a sickness deep in his stomach, a sickness that he can’t shift no matter how much he drinks or how many monsters he slays. 

Ciri finds him in a glen in Kaedwen, camping under the spreading boughs of an old oak. He’s roasting a coney over the fire, boots and shirt draped over the bushes to dry after the drowner he slaughtered earlier in the day, and his no-longer-a-child Child Surprise comes padding through the trees, hair pulled back from her face, clothes muted to blend in with the woods around them. “I heard,” she says, and sits down across the fire. 

It’s been two, maybe three months. Geralt is losing track of the days. 

“How are you doing?” Ciri asks. 

Geralt grunts. 

Ciri watches him for a moment. “I’m not going to leave,” she says, “until you’ve talked to me, Geralt.”

Geralt sits, and turns the coney, and doesn’t meet her gaze. 

“Did I ever tell you how I knew that you loved Jaskier?” Ciri asks, her head cocked to one side like a bird. She watches him a second longer until it’s clear that he’s not going to answer, and then ploughs on regardless. “It was early, very early. We’d just met him on the road to Kaer Morhen, and things were still awkward between you two. We were in some shitty tavern in the middle of nowhere, just sitting at a table in the back eating… something, I don’t remember what. And then you left me with him.” She smiles, just a little. “Not for long, only long enough to go check on Roach, I think – but that was the first time you’d left me alone with anyone. That’s when I knew.” 

Geralt closes his eyes, just for a moment. 

“He wouldn’t want you to be like this,” Ciri says quietly. “He would want you to move on. To remember him, but to move on.”

Geralt shakes his head. “He would want to be alive,” he says roughly. “He would want to not be rotting in the ground in a fucking Oxenfurt graveyard.” 

Ciri pauses for a second, her jaw tight. “You loved him, Geralt,” she says shortly. “But so did I.”

Geralt looks up at her, fever-bright in the flames. “Ciri,” he starts. 

“Don’t talk to me about his rotting corpse,” Ciri snaps. “Don’t talk to me about how he’d really much prefer to be not dead. Don’t talk to me about how he’s gone and you’re mourning and you can’t function, because, you know what, Geralt? _I know_.” She stares at him for a long moment, not speaking. “You and Yen taught me and you raised me, Geralt,” she says, “but Jaskier was my friend – and, in one very important way, we were similar. We’re both _human_.”

“Ciri…”

“He bought me gifts every birthday,” Ciri says, strident in the quiet glen. “Small things, usually. Sugared almonds the first year, a box of plums the second. That was during the war, so little things like that were hard to come by. But then it was a dagger one year, new boots the next. A silk scarf, once, which I wore until it fell apart. And last year, it was this.” She hooks a finger into the high neck of her jerkin, tugs out a plain gold chain. There’s a small rough-cut citrine pendant hanging from it, catching the firelight in its facets, and it only takes Geralt a moment to know that, to Jaskier, it’s the colour of Gerald’s eyes. “And now all I can think,” Ciri says, “is that this is the last present he’s ever going to give me.” 

They sit there in silence for a moment, and then Ciri blinks, just once, and a tear slides down her cheek. 

Geralt gets to his feet, comes around the fire, and takes Ciri into his arms. She resists for a moment, her hand pressed against his chest, her mouth twisted an anger, but then she melts, slips, buried her face in his shoulder and holds on tight. There are no more tears, no, she’s too much of a Witcher for that, but she heaves three great, wracking sobs, and then stills. 

“He sang you to sleep,” Geralt says, into the firelight and the darkness. “When your nightmares were so bad you couldn’t even wake from them, he would sit by you and sing to you.” 

“I remember,” Ciri says. 

Geralt’s throat is knotted tight. “That’s when I knew,” he says, and he could leave it there, he knows he could, knows she’d understand, but this is _Jaskier_ , and he might be dead but he still deserves more than this. “That’s when I knew I loved him.” 

Ciri laughs wetly and pulls away. The citrine pendant hangs outside the neck of her leather jerkin, bright and shining against her armour, a flash of luxury in their life. “Slow as usual, Geralt,” she says, sounding so much like Yennefer it makes Geralt smile. “The last to know, even when it comes to your own emotions.” 

“They don’t exactly train you in healthy relationships in Kaer Morhen,” Geralt observes wryly, his arm still tight around Ciri’s shoulders. 

“That’s true,” Ciri says, and rests her forehead against his shoulder. “But you figured it out anyway.” 

“He helped me,” Geralt says. This is probably the most he’s ever talked about his relationship with Jaskier to someone who isn’t Jaskier, and that realisation sends pain lancing through his gut. “Put up with a lot. Showed me how to do better.” 

Ciri nods. “He was like that,” she says quietly. “He understood us all far better than we ever did.” 

Geralt closes his eyes, and the image that’s behind his eyelids is there like it always is: silvering hair, laughing eyes, lips as red and warm as they ever were. 

“It’ll get better,” Ciri whispers, barely audible over the crack and snap of the fire. “It always does.” 

It gets better, eventually. Or at least it gets easier. 

Geralt travels the Continent, and works. He slays strigas for lords, fights drowners for farmers, battles sirens for washerwomen and destroys wyverns for mayors. They pay, or they don’t pay, and every once in a while he’ll be in a tavern and the local bard will catch sight of him and burst into one of Jaskier’s songs, which is great for the weight of his purse but not so great for his dreams or his alcohol consumption. 

But it gets better. The pain goes from chestbreaking to merely the dull ache of a bruise, and Geralt knows that it will never truly fade—he’s felt it before, the loss, the grief, and he knows it doesn’t—but it becomes manageable. 

A bard with a harp and ribbons in her hair sings a slow, melodic version of _Toss a Coin_ , and it doesn’t make Geralt want to vomit his lunch into the gutters. 

On the anniversary of Jaskier’s death, Geralt goes back to Oxenfurt. He goes to Jaskier’s rooms instinctively but it’s been a year, of course it has, and they’re not Jaskier’s anymore, there’s some history professor who smells of stale sweat and spilled milk living in Jaskier’s space instead. It twists Geralt’s stomach, but less than he thought it might. He visits his grave, of course, sees the bouquets and memorials piled high around the headstone, and then he goes to knock on Shani’s door. She’s waiting for him, two glasses of vodka sitting in front of her, and he takes a seat in that leather armchair and drinks. 

“It’s strange,” Shani says, three glasses in. “I still expect him to be there whenever I turn the corner, whenever I sit down at high table, whenever I walk through his quad. Sometimes I think I smell the scents he used to use, or I think I hear him singing. But it’s never him.” 

Geralt finishes his drink, and pours another. 

That night, he doesn’t stay on Shani’s sofa. He goes out into Oxenfurt, into the streets full of merriment and laughter, and he’s a little drunk, yes, but not so drunk that he’s out of control. For a little while, he just walks, losing himself in the thrum of the city that Jaskier loved, losing himself in his memories, but in the end he finds himself standing in front of a low building built of that same golden stone, warm red light pouring out of its windows. 

Geralt stands there for a long moment, motionless, then goes into the brothel. 

It’s a high-class establishment, this place, velvet drapes on the windows, delicate canapés for paying customers, whores of all shapes, sizes, and sexes. The madam talks Geralt through his options with that particular brand of sensuality mixed with hard business sense that he’s only ever really experienced in brothels, and after only a moment’s consideration, he says, “Him.” 

“Leo,” the madam says, nodding. “An excellent choice. He’ll take you up to your room, which you have until morning. Anything else you require, Master Geralt, just let me know.”

Geralt follows Leo up the stairs, follows his dark hair and blue eyes, his slim hips and long-fingered hands. He knows exactly what he’s doing, but he’s got just enough of the vodka still running through his veins that he doesn’t stop himself. 

“How would you like me?” Leo purrs when the door is shut behind them, running one fingertip down Geralt’s chest, catching in the buckle of his belt. “Would you like me to suck your cock, fair Witcher? Or would you prefer to go straight to the main course?” 

Geralt knows he shouldn’t, knows it’s not how it’s done in this world, but he reaches out, cups the boy’s cheek. His hair is just the wrong shade and his eyes are just a little too light, the bow of his lips off and his dimples too deep, but in the soft light of the whorehouse he looks like Jaskier when they first met, all those years ago, young and naïve, his pants full of bread. He ghosts his thumb across Leo’s lips, just faintly, and, to his credit, the boy seems to understand. He catches Geralt’s hand, presses a soft kiss to his palm, then says, quieter, “Or you can just hold me, if you like.” 

Geralt pulls the boy into his arms, crushes him so tight it can’t be comfortable, doesn’t bury his face in his hair because he smells wrong, he is wrong, but this is the closest he’s going to get ever again. Leo clings to him, fingers in his hair, body in its fine silks and delicate velvets mapped to every line of Geralt’s muscle, because, in Geralt’s experience, the two professions that are best at knowing exactly what their audience needs are bards and whores. 

Later, Geralt fucks the whore who isn’t Jaskier long and slow, as generously as he can, taking him apart with his hands and his mouth and his tongue. The boy whines and moans under him, most of it performance, most of it exaggeration, but there are times when Geralt pushes in just the right place at just the right time and he smells a sharp flood of unexpected arousal. “Oh, fuck,” Leo gasps in quite a different voice, his heels digging in to Geralt’s back, pupils blown wide. “Yeah, right there.” 

When Geralt comes, if he closes his eyes he can imagine that the dark hair is streaked with silver and the blue eyes are creased at the corners. 

Geralt sleeps in the brothel’s bed, on a feather mattress that even Jaskier wouldn’t find something to complain about. He wakes in the morning to a dark haired head lying on his chest, and for a second it’s almost too much to bear – but it passes. 

Leo looks up at him, kohl smudged around his eyes, lips red and bruised. “Morning,” he says, a mischievous light in his gaze. “You’ve got the room for another hour or so. Can I help you with anything else?” 

Geralt runs a hand through his hair, studies the eyes that aren’t Jaskier’s, the lips that aren’t Jaskier’s, the smile that isn’t Jaskier’s, then says, rough with sleep, “Suck me off.” 

“Gladly,” Leo murmurs, and gets to work. 

Geralt leaves Oxenfurt later that day, shoulders loose and forehead unlined, and goes to work. 

Monsters and magic and mayhem. They pass the time, and twelve months turn into thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. The ache is always there in Geralt’s chest, but it doesn’t consume him, doesn’t tear him apart from the inside every time he takes a breath. 

He dreams of Jaskier, yes, but he dreams of other things as well. 

Almost nineteen months have passed when Geralt rides into the small, isolated court of Dehove on the southernmost border with Nilfgaard. It’s a small mostly-independent duchy up in the hills, surrounded by fertile groves and easily-defensible natural geography—an encircling river to the south and west, a ravine to the east, craggy hills to the north—and, apparently they have a monster problem. Something has been harrying cattle and sheep, making the farmers’ lives hell for some time now, but two weeks ago it had the audacity to make off with the duke’s prize stallion so now something has to be done about it. 

Geralt finds the monster with relative ease: it’s a griffin, unable to range further afield for prey because of its mangled left wing. He studies the wing with a critical eye as the beast hisses at him, and comes to the conclusion that it’s probably been hacked at by some foolish young knight in search of fame and glory, except all he managed to do was batter the pinfeathers and clip the creature’s wings permanently. The lack of flight has clearly driven the griffin to distraction, and the wing is mottled and ragged from how it drags along the ground. There’s a distinct smell of gangrenous flesh, too, and Geralt winces, puts the creature out of its misery. 

It dies with a rattling hiss, and Geralt takes its head as proof. 

Duke Alfrey is a tall man who was probably strong in his youth but has allowed age to send him somewhat to seed. He laughs sharply at the sight of the griffin’s head, tosses it between his hands and says, “I shall have it stuffed and mounted, if that’s all the same to you, Witcher. It will be an excellent addition to my hunting lodge.” 

“As you wish,” Geralt answers. 

Alfrey signals to a sombrely-dressed man at his side, who comes forward and hands Geralt a heavy purse. “Your payment,” the duke says. “It’s all there, but I won’t be offended if you count it.” 

Geralt slips the purse into his pocket. “No need, your grace,” he says, and makes a mental note to count it later. 

“There is a feast being held tonight,” Alfrey says, the griffin’s head still dangling from his hand. “In honour of my son’s sixteenth birthday. You will attend, of course, as a token of my gratitude.”

Geralt has precisely zero interest in attending, but he also recognises the hard look in the duke’s eyes. This isn’t an invitation he can refuse. “I regret that I do not have the appropriate clothes for such an event,” he says, as much of a protest as he can manage. 

The duke waves a hand. “No matter,” he says. “Clement will provide you with everything you need.” 

The man in the sombre clothes nods to Geralt. 

“Very well,” Geralt says, and tries not to grimace. 

Much to Geralt’s surprise, Clement’s choice of clothes for him is actually remarkably tasteful: soft, black fabric with embroidered details in silver thread, leather boots with shining silver buckles. He still feels like an idiot putting it all on, but the end result is nowhere near as hideous as the clothes Jaskier used to make him wear when he dragged him along to balls and formal events. 

“And your hair, my Lord?” Clement asks. 

Geralt blinks. “What of it?”

“The current Dehovian fashion,” Clement says, mild and calm, “is for the hair to be braided. Would you like me to provide this for you?” 

“I’m alright, thanks,” Geralt says, trying not to show exactly how awkward that question makes him feel. 

“As you wish,” Clement says, bowing. “The festivities will begin shortly, in the Great Hall. If you would like to come with me?”

Geralt figures the easiest thing to do is just go with him. 

There’s a place for him at Duke Alfrey’s high table next to the Duke himself, laid with six different sets of cutlery and four different wine glasses. Geralt eyes the whole set up with distrust, but takes his seat and reasons that, well, if he can fight a griffin in the morning he can definitely survive a fancy dinner in the evening. The table fills up quickly, courtiers announcing this count and that earl every five minutes, so Geralt finds a carafe of unsurprisingly good wine and gets stuck in. 

They all stand for the arrival of the Duke and his son, but the pomp and ceremony is remarkably brief. Alfrey takes his seat next to Geralt, grasps his hand once more, and says, “This is my son, my lord Witcher. He is truly excited to hear tales of your adventures.”

Geralt smiles politely at the son, a pimply teenager who barely looks strong enough to heft a sword. “I’m afraid I’m not much for storytelling,” he says. “I tend to leave that to the professionals.” 

Alfrey laughs. “And sitting beside my son, Sir Geralt, is my good friend Lord Elias,” he says, then calls, “Elias! This is the Witcher I was telling you about!”

For a second, Geralt can’t breathe. 

The man Alfrey calls Elias turns away from the young woman at his side and looks over at Geralt. He’s maybe the same age as the duke, late fifties, hair mostly silver with a few darker strands, fashionable Dehovian braids gracing his temples, with a neatly-trimmed beard of the same colour. His eyes are a bright cornflower blue, sparkling in the candlelight. “Sir Geralt!” he says, rich and bright and warm. “Alfrey has been singing your praises all afternoon. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Then he claps the duke’s son on his shoulder, says something in a low voice that Geralt doesn’t catch, and turns back to the young woman on his other side. 

There’s a faint buzzing in Geralt’s ears. 

It’s Jaskier. And he just looked at Geralt like he’d never met him before in his life.


	2. Chapter 2

The feast passes in a blur. 

Alfrey alternates his attention between Geralt and his feted son, joshing with the boy—Natan, his name is—and asking for stories of Geralt’s adventures. Geralt obliges as much as he can, but the alcohol coupled with the pure, unfettered shock is turning him into not the best dinner companion. 

Jaskier is sitting mere metres away from him, entertaining the duke’s son and the young woman on his other side, spinning tales and stories like he always has. Except he’s not Jaskier, he’s Lord Elias, bosom friend of Duke Alfrey, with braids in his hair and wine staining his lips – and he’s _not looking_ at Geralt. He doesn’t even glance at him, doesn’t give him a second thought, and Geralt has seen a lot of weird shit in his life but this? This is too much. 

Jaskier is dead and buried. Jaskier can’t be here. 

A page tops Geralt’s cup up with wine, and he grabs for it almost before the boy has stepped away. 

“You seem distracted, my lord Witcher.” 

The woman sitting on Geralt’s left smiles at him gently, and offers him a small plate of caviar with a beringed hand. He accepts, mainly because he’s not sure of the social etiquette around refusing, and she nods encouragingly. “My dear husband forgot to introduce me earlier,” she says wryly, wrinkles soft and gentle around her eyes, blonde hair intricately knotted and braided atop her head. “My name is Laretta. And I can only apologise that my dear Alfrey decided that the best thing to do to show his gratitude for your help was to put you on show in front of the fawners and flatterers of our court.” 

Geralt is a little surprised. “I appreciate the thought behind the gesture,” he says, grating the words out, all he can think to say. 

“I’m sure you do,” Laretta says, and there’s a wryness in her tone that says she thinks the truth is anything but. “Tell me, Geralt of Rivia: what’s on your mind?” 

Jaskier laughs, rich and low and exactly how he has spent so many years laughing at Geralt’s side. 

“Nothing, your grace,” Geralt says, inclining his head in what he hopes is a quiet nod. “It’s been a long day.” 

Laretta nods. The diamonds around her neck sparkle in the candlelight. “I imagine the life of a Witcher is rather tiring,” she says. “Fighting monsters, constant travelling. And you age differently to normal humans, don’t you? Slower? So I assume that you either have no close connections among humanity, or you find yourself watching those close to you fade away and die.” 

On one side, Jaskier laughs and isn’t Jaskier. On the other, Duchess Laretta of Dehove is asking him about the darker intricacies of the life of a Witcher. 

Geralt’s head is throbbing. 

“Oh, that’s a bit impertinent of me, isn’t it?” Laretta says to herself, then clucks her tongue against her teeth in disapproval. “We are not showing you the best side of our court, I’m afraid.” 

“There’s no need to apologise, your grace,” Geralt says, his voice hoarse. 

“You’re not going to tell me it’s an honour to just be in my presence, are you?” Laretta grumbles. 

“I wasn’t planning to,” Geralt says, somewhere between mockery and humour. 

Laretta takes it in the way it’s intended, and laughs. “I like you, Witcher,” she says. “Maybe it’s the wine talking, but I think it might be more to do with your sparkling personality.” 

“Is your grace making fun of me?” 

“Only a little,” Laretta allows, and pats his arm. “But that’s the prerogative of the older woman.” 

Geralt huffs. “I’m pretty sure I’m older than you,” he says, and reaches for his wine because, fuck, what’s going on? What is he doing? Exchanging banter with a duchess while the man he loved and lost sits only a heartbeat away? 

“I’d say that I have more white hairs than you do, nonetheless,” Laretta says, sipping her wine, “but that’s apparently not true.” She rolls a lock of his hair around her fingertip. “Would you allow me to braid it?” 

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Geralt says, horribly uncomfortable. 

Laretta snorts and lets him go. “Fair enough,” she says. “You must stay with us, Lord Witcher, for a few days longer at least. I want to ask you questions when you’re not tired after saving us from the monsters. And I want to get you comfortable enough to let me braid your hair.” She presses her hand to his shoulder, fingertips pushing deep. “You will stay, yes?” 

Jaskier’s voice rumbles in the edges of Geralt’s consciousness, in the depths of his heart, in the forgotten places of his grief. “I’ll stay, your grace,” he says, and feels his slow-beating Witcher heart start to break all over again. 

The evening slips through Geralt’s fingers like sand. There is food and drink and music and dancing, polite conversation which then slides into drunken conversation, and all of a sudden it’s past midnight and Geralt is sitting with two of Alfrey’s knights, drinking sour ale and watching as Jaskier—Elias?—swirls Duchess Laretta around the floor. It’s strange, because he looks like Jaskier but he doesn’t hold himself like Jaskier. His shoulders are square, his jaw is firm, and there’s a regal kind of arrogance in his bearing that Jaskier would never carry.

But then Jaskier-Elias-whoever-the-fuck-he-is starts singing along with the band that’s still gamely playing at the end of the hall, and it’s so familiar it sends a dagger rending right through Geralt’s heart. He staggers to his feet, a hairsbreadth away from storming onto the dancefloor because that’s Jaskier, that’s him, it has to be, it can’t be anyone else. 

“You have a lovely voice, Elias!” Geralt hears Laretta say, bright and shining. 

Elias-Jaskier dips her, twirls her, and smiles graciously. “Why thank you, my lady,” he says. “In another life, perhaps I would have been a bard myself.” 

Geralt can’t take it anymore. He goes. 

The room that the duke gave him for the night is small but well-appointed, tucked away in the wing of the castle reserved for guests and dignitaries. If Geralt’s head weren’t so scrambled, he would be mildly impressed by the duke’s openmindedness – but as it is, he goes back to that room and paces, treading the six steps from one wall to the other, shiny silver buckles on his fancy leather boots clanking and jingling as he does so. 

It’s a spell, it must be. Geralt’s under a spell, cursed to see some poor innocent Dehovian courtier as the man he lost. It’s a… trick, a punishment. There must be a sorcerer at this court with a sour sense of humour, yes, that must be it. 

Or a doppler, maybe that’s more likely. A doppler who met Jaskier once then borrowed his face, decided that it would be easy to charm his way into high society with the smile and laugh of Geralt’s bard. In which case it’s just a horrible, horrible coincidence, a coincidence that wrenches at Geralt’s heart and gut and lungs. 

A ghost? A revenant? An automaton? There are a dozen different reasons, a dozen different explanations, and they all crowd and jostle in Geralt’s head, twisting his thoughts and pulling him apart until all he can remember is the blankness in Jaskier’s eyes when he looked at him. 

Geralt twists, turns, and thuds his fist into the finely-painted wall. 

He sleeps, in the end, exhausted by monster slaying and alcohol and the throbbing pain in his heart. The bed is comfortable and warm, piled high with rich blankets and soft pillows, and Geralt dreams of Jaskier like he hasn’t dreamt of him in months, dreams of his smile and his laugh, his body under Geralt’s hands, strong and lithe, dreams of the joy in his eyes when he catches sight of Geralt across an Oxenfurt quad and the sadness in his face when Geralt leaves. He dreams of what they used to have, what they built together, and then he dreams of a man with Jaskier’s face but without Jaskier’s mind, whirling Geralt across a dancefloor with an unfamiliar song on his lips. 

When Geralt wakes, knotted in fancy sheets and soft bedding, his heart feels raw and bloody in his chest. 

At mid morning, a courtier appears at Geralt’s door. “The Duchess Laretta requests your presence in the rose garden,” he reports, gaze fixed at a point somewhere above Geralt’s left ear. 

Geralt has been lurking in his room for the past few hours, trying to figure out what to do next. Every nerve in his body is telling him to go find Jaskier, Elias, whatever the fuck he is, find him and test him with silver, with words, with kisses – but then he remembers the polite disinterest in the man’s expression and it’s all he can do to keep his stomach from turning inside out. 

Going for a turn in the rose garden with the duchess doesn’t seem like such a bad alternative. 

The courtier leads Geralt into the castle’s gardens. This time of year, Geralt would have expected them to be bare, but Dehove is far enough south that the worst of the cold hasn’t yet arrived. The rose garden is a flourish of blossoms, reds and golds and whites and pinks and blues, carefully pruned into elaborate shapes and patterns, and Geralt has never really been one for flowers but he can appreciate the artistry at work here.

The duchess is kneeling next to a bush bearing deep violet flowers, secateurs in one hand and a bundle of dead leaves on the ground next to her. “Geralt!” she exclaims, glancing up at him. “So good of you to come. I rather worried that you might have taken your chance to slip away quietly last night.” 

“Your grace requested that I stay,” Geralt says. 

“I did, that’s true,” Laretta muses, then gets to her feet and snips off a perfectly-blossomed rose. She approaches Geralt, pins the rose to his jacket, and takes his arm. “In my experience, though, that doesn’t mean that you had to.” 

Geralt doesn’t really know how to answer that, so he hums instead. 

“You’ve made quite an impression, I have to say,” Laretta says. “Natan couldn’t stop talking about you this morning, and I’m fairly sure Alfrey was dreaming about fighting griffins last night.”

Geralt tries to picture Alfrey fighting a griffin, but doesn’t get much further than the duke running away screaming so gives up. 

“And Elias was asking after you.” 

Geralt feels his heart stutter in his chest. “Elias?” 

Laretta’s gaze is knowing. “I thought that might catch your attention,” she says, smiling a wry smile. “I don’t know if you thought you were being subtle, Witcher, but I saw the way you were watching him last night. Like what you see?” 

Geralt’s mouth is dry, and all he can think is, _Jaskier._

“He is a handsome man,” Laretta says. “Very charming. And well-placed at our court, an old friend of Alfrey’s. A wandering monster hunter could do worse.” 

“I’m not,” Geralt starts, then flushes, doesn’t know how to finish. “I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he finishes, a little lamely. 

“I don’t think Elias would mind if you did,” Laretta says, waggling her eyebrows. “And I’m not saying you have to settle down, Geralt, I imagine that wouldn’t really fit in with your monster-hunting lifestyle. But Elias hasn’t shown interest in anyone at all in the eighteen months since he arrived, no, he’s so devoted to the care of his niece that he never seems to take time for himself.” She shakes her head, squeezes Geralt’s arm. “I’ve been throwing attractive men and women at him for months, now,” she says, almost confidentially. “You’re the first who seems to have piqued his interest. So could you be a dear, my lord Witcher, and give him a good roll in the hay before you move on?” 

There’s a lot to unpack in that little speech, but the thing that Geralt keeps focusing on—after the fact that apparently the Duchess of Dehove seems to be trying to persuade him to fuck one of her husband’s friends—is that Elias arrived here eighteen months ago.

Nineteen months ago, Geralt rode into Oxenfurt and found a mountain of dying flowers outside Jaskier’s door. 

“I’ll let you think about it,” the duchess says with a twinkle in her eye, then squeezes his arm once more and lets him go. “We will be having a small gathering tonight,” she says. “Myself and my husband, a few of our friends. Elias should be there, too. I would ask that you attend.” 

Geralt nods, unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I’d be honoured.” 

“Good,” Laretta says. “I have business to attend to, I’m afraid. But feel free to enjoy all the hospitality that Dehove has to offer.” She tosses him a winning smile and sweeps away towards the castle, handing the secateurs off to a gardener who appears from nowhere. 

Geralt stands there among the roses for a second, listening to the slow thud of his own heart, and thinks, _He’s been here eighteen months._

Something’s welling up in his heart that might almost be hope. Insane, irrational, illogical hope. 

Geralt goes back to the castle, a fire in his heart and a purple rose in his jacket. It doesn’t take him long to find out where Lord Elias’ rooms are, because he was afraid, so afraid, afraid and confused and disbelieving – but Elias has been here eighteen months, he’s been here since Jaskier died, and Geralt has never really believed in coincidences. 

The doors to Elias’ rooms are open, unsurprisingly, and Geralt walks straight in without pause. He studies the tasteful wall hangings and elegant furniture, the crossed swords above the mantlepiece— _Jaskier? swords?_ —and the impeccably neat writing desk sitting in one of the bay windows. There’s a lance propped in one corner, clearly well-used, and all of a sudden that thread of disquiet is back in Geralt’s gut. 

“Can I help you?” 

The young woman that Jaskier spent last night’s banquet talking to is standing in the open doorway, wearing an expensive dress of crushed velvet and a fur stole around her shoulders. Her eyes widen a little when she sees Geralt, and she blurts out, “You’re the Witcher!” 

“I am,” Geralt says, then figures it’s probably best to just be straightforward. “I’m looking for Lord Elias.” 

“My uncle isn’t here,” the woman says, her hands knotted awkwardly at her waist. 

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” Geralt asks. 

“Not until tomorrow,” the woman says. “He’s ridden to the family estate – he has some business there. It’s a good half day’s journey away, so he usually stays the night.” 

“Oh,” Geralt says, and frowns. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you.” 

The woman releases the tight clasp of her hands, smoothes her palms down over her skirts. “That’s quite alright,” she says. “My uncle’s rooms are always open. Everyone is welcome here, including you, Sir Witcher.” 

Geralt smiles awkwardly, makes his excuses, and goes. 

Now he’s really confused. Jaskier, with swords and lances and a niece? And a family estate? Well, Geralt knew that he had a family estate somewhere but he’s also pretty sure that Jaskier had no interest in having anything to do with that side of his family – and, anyway, the de Lettenhoves are half the Continent away from here. 

Geralt stalks the corridors of the castle, hands clenched into fists, and feels like he’s just gone straight back to square one. 

Clement shows up in the afternoon to wrestle him into more fancy clothes—dark grey, this time, with emerald green embroidery, and Geralt doesn’t like the colourful turn this is taking—then takes him to the duke and duchess’s private soirée. It’s another evening of wine, food, and music, and Geralt spends the whole night hoping that Elias-Jaskier is going to come walking through the door. 

“Elias sends his apologies,” Laretta says, six glasses of wine deep with a half-eaten piece of topside beef in her hand. “Business at his estate.” She nudges Geralt’s shoulder. “An eligible bachelor, that one.” 

“ _Laretta,_ ” Alfrey drawls. “If Elias wants to bed the Witcher, he doesn’t need you doing all this… groundwork for him!” He chuckles, relaxes back into his armchair. “I knew him when he was a youth – whatever and whoever he wanted, he got.” 

“Yes, but his manners are clearly lacking if he chose to spend this evening with books and accounts,” Laretta counters, “instead of here, with us and our lovely guest.” 

Geralt slowly shifts away from her, avoiding her tactile hands and the brimming glass in her hand. 

The evening passes slowly, and by the time Geralt escapes back to his room, it’s past midnight. He sits on the edge of his bed, hands pressed flat to his thighs, and breathes sharply, harshly. He feels so fucking helpless, _spectacularly_ useless, because every time he thinks he’s got a grip on whatever fucking mess is going on here, something changes and it’s all gone, all changed, all broken. 

His heart is rending in his chest. He can only hope so much. 

Geralt wakes early the next morning. He leaves his room, pads the corridors of the castle while the lords and ladies are still abed, finds food in the kitchens and then goes to visit Roach in the stables. She snuffles at him, noses his shoulder, investigates his pockets to see if he’s got any treats for her, and he offers her the sugar cubes one of the cooks gave him, laughs quietly at the eagerness of her searching tongue. 

“I don’t know what’s happening, Roach,” he says quietly. “I don’t know what to do.” 

She rubs her forehead against his arm, flicks her tail. 

“He’ll be back today,” Geralt says, running his fingers through her mane. “I need to talk to him.” There’s another thought there— _What if it isn’t him? What if he doesn’t know me? What if I’m wrong?_ —but he doesn’t voice it. He doesn’t think he can. 

Roach headbutts him and wickers softly. 

Geralt heads down into the town that clusters around the base of the castle’s walls, finds a tavern, and gets himself a drink. 

It’s evening when he goes back to the castle, faintly buzzed on the fairly decent local ale. He ducks into the kitchens, finds a chunk of bread and a bowl of pottage that the cooks are willing to spare then sits in a quiet corner and wolfs it down. There’s something uncomfortable and tense in his stomach, something borderline nervous, because he’s come here to find Jaskier, Elias, whoever the fuck he is, find him and figure out what the fuck is happening here – and there’s that hope, still, bitter and wrenching. 

Geralt know better than to hope. 

There’s a page waiting for him outside his room, eyes bright and hands neat at his sides. Geralt has half a mind to brush the boy off because he has no intention of being dragged off to one of Laretta’s games again, but the boy is speaking over his thoughts already. “Sir Witcher, Lord Elias requests your presence in his rooms.” 

Geralt’s mouth goes bone dry. 

The page leads him through the castle, quick-footed and quiet-stepped, his livery embroidered in the bright blue of the duke’s colours, a rampant stag worked in golden thread on his narrow chest. He doesn’t speak to Geralt, fortunately enough, just takes him where he needs to be which is good, very good, because Geralt’s hands are clenched at his sides and his gut is wound tight. 

The door to Elias’ rooms is open, as usual. 

Geralt steps into the reception room slowly, sour taste already slicking across his tongue because, shit, he’s there, sitting at that impeccably tidy desk with a large ledger open in front of him, a quill scratching away at the parchment. Geralt doesn’t need to say anything—which is good, because he has no words—because he looks back at him, Jaskier, his eyes bright, his hair silvered, and there’s that dream-feeling again, unreality, unsettled. “Ah, Sir Geralt!” Jaskier says, his voice the same, his words all wrong. “Thank you for coming.” 

Geralt doesn’t answer. He can’t. 

Elias, Jaskier, whoever – he closes the ledger, gets to his feet, and turns to face Geralt. Delicate braids frame his face, his beard is perfectly combed, and there’s a brash redness to his cheeks that speaks of a day spent riding in the bitter wind. He’s Jaskier, he has to be. “I hope that the duke and duchess have been treating you well,” Jaskier-Elias says, and there’s a cocksure arrogance to his voice that speaks of high breeding, rich living. A man who gets what he wants, when he wants it. “I have to say,” he says, entitled, slick, “I’m glad you stuck around. I was a little worried that you might have left by the time I got back from the estate. Isn’t that how Witchers are supposed to operate? Love them and leave them?” There’s a gleam in his eye, keen and insistent. 

Geralt’s breathing is rough and unsteady. 

Elias-Jaskier hums, a tilt to his head that sits so wrong with Geralt’s memories. “The strong, silent type, I see,” he says. “Well, I can work with that.” He crooks a finger, turns away. “Come with me, Witcher,” he says, and it’s even the way he _walks_ , steps heavier, torso too still, shoulders held wider. 

Geralt goes, because even if this isn’t Jaskier, even if it’s _Elias_ , some arrogant lord with Jaskier’s face through some fluke of genetics, he’d do anything to hold him one last time. 

Elias leads through a small door to the back of the reception room which he locks behind them, then down a narrow corridor, up a short flight of stairs, and into a bedroom that Geralt is pretty sure must be tucked away in a turret. It’s perfectly round, the ceiling simple whitewash, the bed plain wood with undecorated white sheets, and Geralt stands there wordless as Elias closes the door behind them, locks it with a twist of his wrist, then pauses, heavy with silence. “Geralt,” he says, voice different, shoulders slumping, forehead bumping against the solid wood of the door. “What are you doing here?” 

Relief is teetering on the edge of Geralt’s tongue. “Jaskier?” he asks, his voice breaking. 

Jaskier turns back to face him, leaning heavily against the door, his stance shifting, away from Elias, _back to himself_. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you, Geralt,” he says. “You can’t be here.”

Geralt’s heart is beating so fast it feels like he’s floating. “Jaskier,” he says again, stupidly, idiotically, but that’s all he can say, all he can think, and he’s crossing the room before he can stop himself, moving into Jaskier’s space, hands hovering before he touches because is this real? Is this happening? – but then he’s touching, his hands cupping Jaskier’s cheeks, his beard, sliding into his hair, touching his shoulders, his chest, his waist, and he doesn’t stop, can’t stop, he pulls Jaskier to him and buries his face in his neck, breathes in and, oh, oh, fuck, it’s there, underneath the unfamiliar scents of an unfamiliar court, it’s him, it’s his smell, it’s _Jaskier._

He’s _alive_. 

Geralt makes a choking noise in the back of his throat. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, his hand coming to the back of Geralt’s head, confusion seeping into his voice. “What’s going on? Are you okay?” 

Geralt is shaking. His whole body, his hands, his knees, his shoulders, and this isn’t what a Witcher is supposed to be, he isn’t supposed to be weak like this, vulnerable like this, but Jaskier was _dead_ and now suddenly he’s _not_ and it’s too much. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says again, and pushes him away a little, just enough to see his face. His eyes are wide, worried, and he takes Geralt’s face in his hands, those long-fingered, lute-calloused hands that Geralt knows so well. “You’re scaring me.” 

“You’re dead,” Geralt grinds out finally, painfully, and it hurts like he’s dragging thorns out of his throat. “Jaskier, _you’re dead_.”

Jaskier just looks even more confused. “I’m very much not,” he says. 

“I went to Oxenfurt,” Geralt says, his tongue thick in his mouth, stumbling around the words. “A year and a half ago. Your rooms were closed up and there was a gravestone in the cemetery with your name on it.” 

Fear flashes in Jaskier’s eyes. “What?” 

Geralt’s hands fist in the front of Jaskier’s richly embroidered doublet, and he knows he’s being too rough, he knows he’s tearing the fabric but right now he doesn’t care. “Shani found me,” he says, grinding it out. “She told me, she was with you, Jaskier, she felt your heart fucking _stop_.” 

“No,” Jaskier says softly. “No, that’s not right.” 

“I _grieved_ you,” Geralt spits, violent and mad and angry, so angry, because he doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand at all. “I _mourned_ you. I _let you go_.” 

There’s panic in Jaskier’s eyes. “Geralt—”

“And then I see you here,” Geralt hisses. “And you ignore me. And I think I’m going crazy, I think I’m losing my fucking mind because _you’re dead_.” 

“I’m not,” Jaskier says, grabbing Geralt’s face, holding him still, his eyes bright and blue. “Geralt, look at me. _Look at me._ ” Geralt looks, drinks him in, the eyes and the lips and the hair. “I’m here,” Jaskier says, his voice low. “I’m alive. I’m here, I’m safe.” He ducks forward, presses his lips to Geralt’s, and it’s not a passionate kiss, not a kiss of arousal and want, no, it’s desperation. It’s fear. “Geralt, please.” 

Geralt has so many questions, there are so many things that he doesn’t know and he needs to know, _demands_ to know, but right now Jaskier is here and Jaskier is alive and that’s all that fucking matters. 

He surges forward, claims Jaskier’s mouth, kisses him like he’s drowning. Jaskier gives as good as he gets, pulling him impossibly closer, closer, and somehow they make it to the bed and Geralt’s hands are underneath Jaskier’s doublet, underneath his shirt, flush against warm, bare skin and Jaskier makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and it’s everything Geralt thought he would never have again. “Jaskier,” he murmurs into the skin of Jaskier’s neck, and Jaskier clutches at him wordlessly, holds him close. 

The sex is hurried, rushed, and messy. Jaskier’s expensive doublet ends up on the floor, ripped practically in two, and he doesn’t even get his boots off, trousers caught around his knees as he arches off the bed, spilling and groaning into Geralt’s hands. Geralt isn’t any better: he doesn’t even lose his shirt before he’s coming apart under Jaskier’s touch, gasping his pleasure into Jaskier’s mouth. 

It’s the best orgasm Geralt’s ever had. 

They strip off their clothes, after, and lie skin-to-skin under the simple linen sheets. Geralt closes his eyes and listens to the pitter-fast beat of Jaskier’s heart. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier sighs, his voice soft as a prayer. 

“What’s going on here, Jaskier?” Geralt asks, his hand pressed flat and heavy to Jaskier’s chest. 

Jaskier sighs, wordless and soft. “It’s a long story,” he says, shifting onto his side to face Geralt, his hair mussed and his lips wet. “And, from what you’re saying, I think there’s a whole other chapter that I haven’t even read yet.” He grits his teeth, and Geralt feels the flash of fear in his sweat. 

Geralt shifts forward, kisses Jaskier soft and careful. “I thought you were gone,” he says. “I thought I lost you. Whatever it is, I’ll be here.” 

Jaskier shivers, presses closer. “I wrote you a letter,” he says, so softly it’s barely more than a whisper. “Before I left Oxenfurt. It was supposed to be delivered to you, Amaria fucking _told_ me it would be delivered to you.”

“What letter?”

Jaskier’s eyes are cool and calm. “I knew I was going to be gone for a while,” he says. “Eighteen months, maybe two years. I knew that. And I knew that my friends at Oxenfurt would buy the cover story they were going to be fed, that I got sick and it made me… reevaluate my life, made me miss the road. But I knew you wouldn’t, and I told them that, I told – Dijkstra that.”

Geralt stiffens. “Dijkstra?” he asks softly, dangerously. “The fucking Redanian _spymaster_?”

Jaskier’s breathing is smooth and strong. “Yes,” he says. “The fucking Redanian spymaster. He sent me here, Geralt. And I told him that you wouldn’t believe that I’d just taken to the road, I told him that you wouldn’t believe that I’d disappear without you. So I wrote you a fucking letter, Geralt, and in it I told you that there were some things I needed to do, that I was going to be gone for a while but that I would be safe and I’d come back.” He breathes. His breath is shaky. “He’s clearly decided to go down a different route.” 

Geralt sits up, his heart beating harder in his chest. “Jaskier,” he says, tight and low. “I’m going to need more than that.” 

Jaskier moves slower, pulling himself up against the headboard, the sheets pooling in his lap. He lets out a long breath, meets Geralt’s gaze steady and head on. “I got tapped for the secret service when I was a student at Oxenfurt,” he says flatly. “What can I say? I was flattered, and maybe a little more idealistic than I am now. They trained me, taught me the basics, then told me to go about my life, said they’d be in touch when I was needed.”

“Needed to do what?” Geralt asks. 

Jaskier shrugs. “Mostly carrying information, at first,” he says. “Being a travelling bard was useful in that respect – especially one who had a Witcher as an unwitting bodyguard. But then I was sent to the Countess de Stael and, well—” He spreads his arms. “—turns out I have a talent for infiltrating courts.” 

“This whole time,” Geralt says, his jaw tight. “Since we met.” 

Something unreadable flickers in Jaskier’s eyes. “What did you think I was doing when I wasn’t travelling with you?” he asks quietly. “Hanging around, waiting for your destiny to bring us back together? No. No, I was… working. And to begin with, I enjoyed it. It was… fun, in a way.” His face spasms. “But then there was the war,” he says softly, so softly. “That changed things, Geralt. The things they tried to make me do, the things they _did_ make me do…” He trails off, shakes his head. “It was Ciri, of course,” he says flatly. “Dijkstra wanted her, everyone wanted her. And I wasn’t about to hand her over, fuck _that_. So I bolted. Deserted. I was declared _persona non grata_ in any court with Redanian links, but that was okay because I was with you.” He crooks a smile. “You kept me safe.”

“You never told me,” Geralt says, harsh in his throat. “Any of it.” 

Jaskier is silent for a moment. “After the war, I took up a professorship at Oxenfurt,” he says. “You know that. I wanted a break. And I figured that Dijkstra probably had bigger problems than little old me. But I was wrong. He came to me, sought me out. Told me that I _owed_ him.” He shrugs. “I told him where to shove it, of course, but then he… Well.” He sets his jaw, holds Geralt’s gaze. “He’d found out about us,” he says, finally. “He threatened you. Said that if I didn’t work for him, not often, not regularly, but sometimes, if I didn’t jump when he told me to, then he’d have you killed. Or worse.” 

“Worse?” 

Jaskier laughs bitterly. “I didn’t ask,” he says. “With Dijkstra, it’s never a good idea to ask.” His hands twitch in his lap like he wants to reach out, wants to touch, but he doesn’t. “I’m too famous in most of the Four Kingdoms to be useful for infiltration,” he says eventually, “so it’s mostly carrying information, passing messages, like when I started out. Simple things. Easy. But then they needed someone to come here, to Dehove, to a backwards little duchy in the south that I never played at, never visited with you. And, as luck would have it, I was perfect for the job that needed doing.” 

“Which is?” Geralt asks. 

Jaskier shrugs. “Persuading Alfrey that he wants to betroth his son to Cara,” he says. “The girl who’s pretending to be my niece. And Lord Elias does have a niece called Cara, it’s just that that girl out there isn’t her.” 

“And you’re not Elias,” Geralt says. 

“Also correct.”

“Is there a real Elias?” 

“There was,” Jaskier says. “A childhood friend of Alfrey’s. He was killed in the war, not that Alfrey knows. Dijkstra’s people maintained correspondence with him for years, inventing a fictitious life, a fictitious friendship. And when they needed to, they found another Elias.” 

“You.” 

“Me,” Jaskier agrees. “Apparently I’m physically very similar, with a few… adjustments.” He rubs at his beard, almost absently. “Learn Elias’ handwriting, learn his history. Charm Alfrey, charm Laretta, charm Natan. Charm them all.” He shrugs. “And so here I am.” 

Geralt just watches him for a long moment, waiting. 

“But now Dijkstra’s killed me,” Jaskier says softly, hands lying flat and still on his thighs, head tilted a little to the left as he works it out. “Whatever he dosed me with, it was just supposed to make me look ill for a while – but instead it must have been strong enough to make it seem like I was actually dead. Fooled everyone, fooled _Shani_ , the dean of fucking medicine at Oxenfurt. Fooled you, Geralt. Made everyone believe I was dead.” 

“Why?” Geralt asks, because he understands a lot of this, understands the blackmail, understands the secrecy, but what he doesn’t understand is why there’s a gravestone with Jaskier’s name on it in an Oxenfurt cemetery. 

Jaskier’s jaw is tight. “There are rumours,” he says slowly. “Horror stories, I guess you might say. Because operatives are all well and good, but sometimes they get too… attached. To their lives. To their loved ones. So sometime’s what’s best is for them to be… detached. Permanently.” 

“What does that mean?”

Jaskier looks at Geralt, a steel in his eyes that Geralt doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. “I’m not dead, Geralt,” he says, “but I may as well be.” There’s a muscle pulsing in his jaw, fast and manic. “When I’m done here, I thought I’d be taken back to Oxenfurt, back to my life there. Back to you.” He breathes in a shuddering breath. “But I won’t,” he says. “When I’m done, I’ll be taken from here and I’ll be put to use somewhere else, in some other court, some other identity. Some other _face_. And then again, and again, and again. They won’t let me go, they won’t let me go back.” 

“No,” Geralt says flatly. “Never. I won’t lose you again.” 

Jaskier’s shaking his head. “You don’t understand, Geralt,” he says. “They _know_. They know you’re here. They know you’ll’ve told me.”

“How can they know that?” 

“Because _I told them_ ,” Jaskier hisses. He pushes down into the pillows, his hands digging into his hair, pulling, clenching tight. “I wasn’t visiting my fucking estate yesterday, Geralt, I was visiting my fucking _handler_. Amaria. And I told her you were here because I tell her everything, because I thought I could fucking trust her. Because I’m an idiot. A fucking simple _idiot_ , and now I’ve put us both in danger.” He looks up at Geralt, blue eyes wide and wild. “Shit,” he says flatly. “She told me to get rid of you, Geralt. Not to speak to you, not to say a single word to you. To get you out of here as soon as I could – but I couldn’t. I couldn’t just send you away without talking to you, not when it’s been so fucking long and I’ve missed you _so much_.” He grimaces, smacks his head back against the headboard. “And now I’ve fucked it.” 

“We need to go,” Geralt says. “Right now.” 

Jaskier shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I can’t. If I bolt now, Alfrey and Laretta will know something’s wrong. They’ll suspect Cara.”

“So what?” Geralt spits. “Fuck Dijkstra’s scheming.” 

“They’ll kill her,” Jaskier says quietly, then offers Geralt a bitter smile. “They’re not all parties and fun here, Geralt. There’s a reason I’m here secretly, a reason I’m here as Elias not as myself. They don’t like outsiders. They don’t like them at all, and I don’t give a shit about Dijkstra but I care about Cara. She’s a good kid.” 

Geralt grits his teeth. “I’m not losing you again,” he says flatly. 

Jaskier’s expression is open and oddly vulnerable. “You sure you still want me?” he asks, hesitant, pausy. “I just told you that I’ve been lying to you for _years_ , Geralt. This whole other life that I just… _kept_ from you.” 

“You told me that you turned your back on fucking _Dijkstra_ when he pushed you too far,” Geralt says, angry, so fucking angry he can barely hold himself back. “And then he forced you back into it by blackmailing you, by threatening me. You told me that you betrayed _yourself_ to protect me.” 

“Geralt—”

“I love you,” Geralt blurts. “And you were fucking _dead_ , Jaskier.” He moves closer, pulls Jaskier to him, bare skin to bare skin, kisses him hard and bitter and full of all the pain that he buried so deep down inside himself. “After that, there is nothing you could do that would make me not want you. _Nothing_.” 

Jaskier shudders against him. “Fuck, Geralt,” he murmurs, open and raw. “I don’t know what I’d do if you were gone.”

Geralt kisses him again, and doesn’t answer. 

Jaskier’s quiet for a long moment, but there’s a look on his face that Geralt knows. He’s thinking, figuring it out – and if Geralt’s more used to seeing that expression when Jaskier’s composing a ballad than planning fucking _espionage_ , well, there’s a first time for everything. “They won’t touch me until Cara’s in place,” he says finally. “Natan’s betrothal feast is being held in a month, so I’m safe until then. But after that, it won’t be long before they disappear me. So after the betrothal, I’ll go to ground.” 

“Won’t they find us?” Geralt asks. 

A tight expression crosses Jaskier’s face. “Not us,” he says softly. “Me.” 

Geralt’s heart twists in his chest. “No,” he says. 

“I can hide better without you,” Jaskier says. “There are places I can go that are closed to you.” His lips are pressed tight. “And it’s not like you won’t be in danger.” He reaches out, runs his fingers along Geralt’s jaw. “I have a favour to ask,” he says quietly. “I can’t show my face until Dijkstra’s called off his hounds, Geralt. If I do, they’ll take me and I’ll lose you for good. So I need you to get to Dijkstra for me.” A spasm crosses his face. “And I can’t help you do it.” 

Geralt catches Jaskier’s hand, presses it to his cheek. “I’ll rip his head from his body,” he promises. 

Jaskier laughs. “Hopefully you won’t need to be that extreme,” he says. “Murdering him is probably not going to fix anything. He needs to call off his people first. I guess you’ll just have to convince him that I’m… more trouble than I’m worth.” 

“How do I do that?” Geralt asks, low and tight. 

Disquiet flashes in Jaskier’s eyes and he runs his hand through Geralt’s hair, his fingers shaking, just a little. “I honestly don’t know,” he answers. “But I trust that if anyone can work it out, it’ll be you.” 

Anger flares in Geralt’s chest, anger and fear and the grief that’s still there, still hot and bitter and choking despite the fact that Jaskier’s here and alive and naked under his hands. “I thought you were gone,” he says, short and biting, ravaging his throat. “I thought I’d lost you.” 

“Never,” Jaskier says, pulling him closer, kissing him soft and fierce all at once. “Never.” 

“I don’t like leaving you.”

“I don’t like being left,” Jaskier says, pressing their foreheads together. “But I trust you, Geralt. I trust you with all I am.”

Geralt growls, deep in his throat, and he doesn’t know why he says it but it’s brimming up in his chest, all of it, all the hurt, all the bonecrunching grief. “I fucked a whore,” he says gruffly, “because he looked like you. Younger, like when we met, and he smelled wrong. But…” He trails off, can’t finish the thought. 

“But he was the closest thing you could get,” Jaskier finishes, because Jaskier was always better at voicing Geralt’s thoughts than Geralt. “Oh, Geralt. I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault.”

Jaskier shakes his head, his hands sliding across Geralt’s shoulders, palms flat to his bare skin. “I should have told you,” he says bitterly. “I should have told you years ago.”

Geralt kisses him, and doesn’t answer. 

“In the morning,” Jaskier says, after a while, his head tucked under Geralt’s chin. “You should go at first light. Take the path that leads over the hills. It’s riskier, but safer from Dijkstra’s people.” 

Geralt hums. “Won’t the duke and duchess notice my sudden disappearance?” 

Jaskier snorts. “No offence, Geralt,” he says, “but most of the reason they’re so interested in you is because Laretta’s been trying to get me laid since I got here. I do not know why, but she is _weirdly_ invested in my sex life. Or lack of.” He runs a hand down Geralt’s bare chest, slow, gentle. “She’ll plump me for details about you,” he says, a lick of lasciviousness in his voice. “I might have to get quite explicit.” 

Geralt huffs a laugh. “Just tell her that I let you braid my hair,” he says. “She’ll be delighted.” He runs his fingers over the braids in Jaskier’s silver-dark hair, then tugs him closer, breathes him in. “In the morning,” he says, quieter. 

“In the morning,” Jaskier agrees, just as quiet, then looks up at Geralt, wrinkles deep around his eyes, so much older than the boy in the brothel and so much more beautiful for it. “That means we have tonight,” he says, and it could be dripping with seduction, with lust, with want, Geralt’s heard that voice on Jaskier’s lips so many times by now, but instead it’s calm, quiet, almost sacred. They have tonight. Unsaid, it might be all they have. 

Geralt kisses Jaskier, and doesn’t let him go.


	3. Chapter 3

The dawn light seeps in through narrow windows and plays across Jaskier’s sleeping face. 

Geralt hasn’t slept. That’s not unusual, in and of itself – he doesn’t need to sleep like a normal human does, not really, and he’s spent more than one night in the course of his long life watching over Jaskier’s sleep. So now he sits in the morning light, Jaskier curled at his side, head heavy on his chest, and Geralt runs his fingers through his silvering hair, over and over and over again. 

The braids came undone sometime in the night, pulled apart by the run of Geralt’s hands, by Jaskier’s head thrown back against the pillows, by the press of thighs and arms and cheeks. 

Jaskier stirs slowly, his breath rushing warm and heavy across Geralt’s chest. His hand spreads across Geralt’s stomach, fingertips rough and familiar, and the halo of the morning makes everything a little fuzzy around the edges, like a dream within a dream. It’s not helped by the fact that this is something Geralt thought was _gone_ , well and truly gone, lost to the haze of pain and grief that consumed him for so long – but now it’s here, Jaskier’s here, heavy and sleepy and stretching up to kiss him, slow and lazy in the soft light of dawn. 

Jaskier kisses him, slow and lazy, and then smiles at him, so warm, so beautiful. “Hey,” he says. 

Geralt presses his forehead against Jaskier’s but doesn’t answer – because when he answers, the bubble bursts. When he answers, it’s over. 

Jaskier’s hand smoothes down the side of his face, fingertips rubbing through his stubble, brushing across his lips. “Hey,” he says, his tone different, quieter, softer. “Don’t.”

Geralt hums at him. 

Jaskier shifts. “ _Don’t_ , Geralt,” he says, sharper. “I know you. Stop panicking.” 

“I have to leave you here,” Geralt rumbles. “I have to leave you when I only just found you again.” He pauses. “And I don’t panic.” 

Jaskier snorts, and disentangles himself from Geralt’s limbs. “Sure you don’t,” he says, and sits up on the side of the bed. Geralt feels his loss like an ache in his gut, so he moves as well, retrieves yesterday’s clothes from the floor, starts to dress. “Geralt,” Jaskier says after a moment, a serious note in his voice, and Geralt looks back at him. “Everything I’ve told you, for as long as you’re in Dehove, it stays in this room. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Geralt says, lacing up his trousers. 

Jaskier nods. “Good,” he says, and goes to a chest of drawers, takes out fresh clothes that smell faintly of whatever scent it is that Elias wears. “I’ll see you off,” he says, “and point you in the right direction. Don’t talk too much, not that that’ll be a problem for you, I imagine. Play the strong, silent Witcher. It’s safer that way.” 

Geralt hums. “Don’t want me blowing your cover.” 

“Something like that,” Jaskier says, shrugging into a deep red velvet doublet, twining vines worked in gold thread down his chest. There’s a small mirror in one corner and he peers at himself in it, sections out the hair at his temples and starts braiding. 

Geralt sits on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots and watches the careful dance of Jaskier’s fingers, the concentration in his eyes, the tight press of his lips. The braids take shape, impeccable, perfectly neat, and when they’re done Jaskier studies himself for a moment longer, presses his fingertips to the bruise Geralt left on his neck, just a little too high for his collar to disguise. “Laretta will give me shit for this,” he says wryly. 

“I thought it might help you remember me,” Geralt says, elbows leaning on his thighs. 

Jaskier turns back to him, long-fingered hands spread across his hips. “I could never forget you,” he says, somewhere between soulful and teasing. 

Geralt holds out his hand. “I want you to have this,” he says. 

Jaskier pads across the room. “What is it?” he asks, taking the amethyst on its chain out of Geralt’s hand. 

“An amulet,” Geralt answers. “Hold it in your closed fist and speak, and Yennefer will hear you. You can use it to call for help, if you need it.”

Jaskier twines the silver chain around his fingers, studying the slightly too-bright spark in the centre of the stone. “Not sure she’d like you giving this to me,” he says. “It’s meant for you, after all.” 

Geralt stands and takes the amulet from Jaskier’s fingers. He loops the chain over Jaskier’s neck, tucks the stone under the neck of his doublet, then smoothes his hands down across Jaskier’s chest, resisting the urge to just grab him and pull him close and never let him fucking go. “If you call, she’ll come,” he says gruffly, roughly. 

Jaskier settles his hands over Geralt’s, holds them still. “I’ll be okay,” he says softly. “You’re not going to lose me.” 

“Keep it on,” Geralt says, ignoring that because he’s not sure how to answer without losing his mind. “Just… keep it on. No matter what.” 

Jaskier raises Geralt’s hands to his lips, kisses his knuckles. “I will,” he says. 

Geralt nods, just once, and finally gives in to the urge to crush Jaskier to him, to pull him close, to bury his face in his neck and, just for a moment, to pretend that none of this happening. Jaskier lets himself be crushed, pulled, manhandled as much as Geralt needs to, and then, just for a moment, when Geralt’s breath is hot against Jaskier’s skin and Jaskier’s hands are tight in Geralt’s hair, Geralt feels Jaskier tremble. 

It doesn’t last. 

Jaskier steps back, after a pause, breathing out slowly, brushing his hands down across his crimson doublet. “When we’re outside,” he says, “I’m Elias. I walk like him, I talk like him, I _am_ him. I won’t be… affectionate with you, Geralt, I won’t be able to. Elias spent the night being happily fucked by a wandering Witcher, and he’s grateful for it, sure, but he’s also an asshole of a lord so he’s not exactly going to be writing you love poems.” His lips quirk, wry and dry. “Or telling people to toss coins to you, matter of fact.” 

“I know,” Geralt says. 

“I know you do,” Jaskier says, smile twisting his lips. “I’m just having to remind myself.” 

“Are you Elias yet?” Geralt asks. 

Jaskier glances down at himself. “Despite appearances, no.” 

Geralt kisses him, as gentle as he can manage with the tension thrumming through him. Jaskier sighs against his lips, soft and intimate, and it’s a tender farewell kiss that doesn’t last anywhere long enough. 

“Okay,” Jaskier says, stepping away. “We have to go. Before I change my mind and I chain you to my fucking bed.” He meets Geralt’s gaze and his lips twitch a final smile. “I love you,” he says, bald and empty. “I really do.” 

Geralt’s jaw is tight. “I love you,” he says, and the words hurt not just because they’re hard for him to say, not just because his Witcher training taught him that he _shouldn’t_ say them, but because he’s loved Jaskier and he’s lost Jaskier and he doesn’t know if he can do it again. 

Jaskier smiles at him, a little sadly, and then Geralt watches as he puts on Elias’ personality like he’s putting on a coat. His shoulders square, his chest puffs out, his eyes spark with that arrogance, that disinterest, and then he flashes Geralt a dangerous, seductive smile and says, “Shall we?” 

Geralt just nods. 

Elias leads him through the castle’s corridors, his gait heavier, his presence overbearing, and he keeps up a constant stream of conversation as he does, conversation about the duke and the duchess and his niece and the castle and pretty much anything Geralt could choose to ask about. Geralt doesn’t answer, of course, too caught up in the tightness in his chest, and then Elias-Jaskier takes him to his little room and says with a wink, “Your belongings, Witcher. Shall I wait out here while you collect them, or would you like me to come inside for another round?” 

The last thing Geralt wants to do right now is spend more time with this parody of what Jaskier is supposed to be. “Wait here,” he says, gruffer than he meant to, and goes to parcel up his meagre belongings. 

Elias is waiting for him in the corridor, and Geralt doesn’t miss the way his eyes flick up and down the length of his body. “Pity,” he says, as Geralt shuts the door behind him. “I don’t think I’ve ever quite had a man like you before, Witcher. And I don’t imagine I will again.”

Geralt knows it’s a show, knows that Jaskier is saying and doing what he’s saying and doing because he has to, because he needs to, but it doesn’t stop the wrongness twisting in his gut. “My horse,” he says. 

“Ah yes, your noble steed,” Elias says, and for a second it’s so much like Jaskier that Geralt wants to scream. 

The stables are quiet enough this early, a few stablehands brushing down the horses that are required for the duke’s hunting expedition later today, Elias informs Geralt, and the stablemaster leads them to Roach’s stall. She flicks her ears at the sight of Geralt, then huffs a breath when Jaskier runs his hand down her nose. 

The stablemaster looks surprised. “She wouldn’t let anyone else touch her,” he says. “Nearly bit my hand off when I was trying to brush her mane.” 

Jaskier’s fingers stutter, almost imperceptibly. “She must recognise good breeding,” he says with a perfect impersonation of that unique aristocratic arrogance. “A fine beast for a fine beast,” he says, laughing sharply, and the stablemaster shoots Geralt a look of shared sympathy before he leaves them to it. Jaskier watches as Geralt saddles Roach, quick and easy and efficient, and smiles up at him when he swings himself into the saddle. “Follow the main road out of the castle grounds,” he says, “then when it forks, go to the right. That will take you where you need to go.” His eyes flash with something that isn’t Elias, that isn’t that lordling who lives in luxury, no, it’s Jaskier, locked away and tamped down. “If you’re ever in the area again,” he says, no softness in his voice, “do come and visit, dear Witcher. There will always be a place for you in my bed.” 

Geralt understands what Jaskier is trying to say. How he has to say it still turns his stomach. “My lord,” he says with a nod, then digs his heels into Roach’s sides, and goes. 

For the first few days after leaving Dehove, Geralt doesn’t think. The hill road is fairly straightforward, even if on a couple of occasions he’s pretty sure he’s being trailed by bandits, but his Witcher swords must scare them off before no one dares bother him. Roach seems to sense his disquiet because she covers the miles at an unrelenting pace, putting as much distance between them and the castle—and _Jaskier_ —as possible. The further north they get, the quicker the cold settles in, and it becomes rapidly very clear that they’ll need to find somewhere to hole up over the cold months to come. 

For a moment, Geralt thinks about Jaskier, alone, on the run, hiding in the depths of winter with no one beside him. 

Kaer Morhen rears up dark and jagged in the mountains ahead of him. 

Geralt’s not entirely sure why he’s come here. It’s not Redania, it’s not Dijkstra, it’s not a place of espionage and double meaning, it’s not a place that’s complicated, so fucking complicated – but, of course, maybe that’s the point. He doesn’t know what to do, how to think, how to act. So he goes to the place that taught him what to do, how to think, how to act, and maybe, hopefully, somehow it will help him figure things out.

“Geralt,” Vesemir says, taking Roach’s bridle as Geralt dismounts in the front courtyard of the keep. “I wasn’t expecting you. It’s been a while.” 

Which is when Geralt remembers that he hasn’t been wintering in Kaer Morhen for years, now, no, he’s been spending his winters in Oxenfurt, with Jaskier, curled up next to the fire in the warmth and the comfort of their history and their present. Except for last winter, of course. Because last winter, there was no Jaskier, Jaskier was gone, Jaskier was dead and so Geralt spent the winter drowning in contracts and work to stop himself from having to think about the pain. 

Vesemir is looking at him oddly. “Your Witcher girl is here, by the way,” he says. “She’s making dinner as we speak.” 

Geralt frowns. “Ciri is?” 

Vesemir looks vaguely pained. “She insisted,” he says. “Told me she needs the practice.” 

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “That’s an understatement.” 

Vesemir claps him on the shoulder. “Get settled, then come get some food,” he says. “And then you can tell me why exactly you stink of fear and dread.”

Geralt could never get much past Vesemir. 

He stables Roach alongside Ciri’s sleek black mare, and the two horses greet each other in their own way, snuffling each other’s necks and huffing steaming breaths out into the cold air. He strips off Roach’s tack and takes it inside with him, dumps it in the corner of his room because they’ve been riding hard for a while, now, long enough that he needs to take some time with her gear, go through it and make sure that it’s all still functioning, that the metal isn’t rusting, that the leather isn’t cracking. His own bags go next to the bed, next to the bed piled with blankets and furs that he’s spent so many winters in, next to the bed that he spent one winter with Jaskier in, bracketed together against the snow and the wind and the freezing cold. That was a long time ago, though, when Ciri was a newcomer to his life, when the war was yet to be fought, when Jaskier was still young, no silver in his hair, only the faintest hint of crows feet around his eyes. 

A long time ago. 

Geralt goes to find something to eat. 

In the small hall, Vesemir and Ciri are sitting across from each other at the long table, bowls of something that surprisingly actually smells like stew in front of them. Ciri gets to her feet at his arrival, hugs him tight with a broad smile on her face, then pushes him down in the seat next to her and presents him with another bowl. “It’s actually pretty edible,” she admits. “I wouldn’t go so far as tasty, but hopefully no one’ll get food poisoning this time.” 

Vesemir laughs. “Last winter, both Eskel and Lambert spent two days vomiting after our Witcher girl took it upon herself to make dinner.”

Ciri looks gloomy. “Lambert still won’t eat anything I give him,” she says. 

Geralt tries the stew – which, as promised, seems like it’s unlikely to turn his insides out. It’s also somehow completely tasteless, despite all the herbs he can see floating in the broth, but tasteless is better than poisonous, so he’ll take it. He eats. 

Beside him, he sees Vesemir exchange a glance with Ciri. “So,” Vesemir says, tone sober. “Geralt.” 

Geralt spoons down another mouthful, but he knows he’s only putting off the inevitable. His heart is beating faster in his chest because it’s, what, three weeks since he left Dehove? Longer? Long enough that Jaskier’s time is running out. 

Ciri is watching him, wordless. 

Geralt puts his spoon down next to his still half-full bowl. “It’s Jaskier,” he says, unable to hide the tremor in his voice. 

Vesemir’s expression twists. “I heard about his death,” he says. “Loss like that is never easy.” 

Geralt can’t help it: he laughs. It’s not a happy laugh, no, it’s more an outburst of air from his broken lungs, but for a long moment he sits there at the table in Kaer Morhen and _laughs_ , bitter and desperate. It’s a joke, all of it. A sick, horrible joke. 

Ciri stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “Geralt?” she asks, thick with concern. 

“He’s not dead,” Geralt says, forcing it out between his teeth because if he doesn’t say it now, he never will. “Jaskier, he’s not dead.”

Vesemir is frowning. “Geralt—”

“I’m not going mad,” Geralt interrupts. “This isn’t grief. This is real.”

“This isn’t funny, Geralt,” Ciri says, her voice tight. “Whatever you’re trying to do, it isn’t funny.” 

Geralt reaches for her, grabs her hand, squeezes it so tight he hears her bones creak. “I’ve seen him,” he hisses. “I’ve spoken to him, I’ve touched him. Ciri, he’s alive. _He’s alive_.” 

Confusion flares in her eyes. “I don’t understand,” she says slowly. “I’ve been to Oxenfurt, Geralt. I’ve seen his grave. He’s gone. He’s been gone over a year.” 

Geralt shakes his head. “He’s in the south,” he says. “He’s in the south, in the duchy of Dehove. He’s impersonating a dead Dehovian lord, and he’s been there since he was taken from Oxenfurt last summer.” 

There’s a long silence, in which Ciri just stares at him, her green eyes starting to spark with hope. 

Vesemir leans across the table, stew forgotten. “I think you’d better tell us everything,” he says flatly. 

Geralt takes a breath, releases Ciri’s hand, and tells them everything. 

“A spy,” Ciri says, disbelief warring with admiration in her voice. “A Redanian spy. Working for _Dijkstra_.”

“Unwillingly,” Geralt corrects. 

Vesemir’s frowning. “And you’re sure this Dehovian lord isn’t just his spitting image?” he says. “That this isn’t your grief convincing you of things that aren’t true?” 

Geralt shakes his head. “No,” he says. 

Vesemir’s gaze is intense. “Illusions can be powerful,” he says slowly, “and, in your grief, you would believe them, Geralt.”

“We spent the night together,” Geralt says shortly, ignoring the clench in his jaw, ignoring the odd look in Vesemir’s eye. “I know him. It’s him. It couldn’t be anyone else.” 

Ciri leans forward, elbows on the table, hands pushing her hair back from her face. “And he asked for your help,” she says. “He asked you to help him.” 

“He did,” Geralt says. “Which I have no fucking idea how to do.”

“Threats?” Ciri suggests brightly. 

Vesemir’s expression is disapproving. “I somehow don’t think that threats are going to make much of an impact on this particular man,” he says. “No, you need to offer him something. Something that he wants.” His gaze is level on Geralt. “After all, that’s what he did to your bard,” he says, something Geralt can’t place in his voice. “Offered him your safety. And in return, he gives up his… services.” 

“You can’t stay here, Geralt,” Ciri says, short and firm. “The snow will trap us here in the next few days, maybe a week at most. You can’t stay here for the whole winter. You have to _go_.” 

Geralt’s hands clench. “And do what?” he asks. 

“We’ll figure it out on the way,” Ciri says. “I’m coming with you, if that wasn’t clear.” 

Instinct makes Geralt want to protest, to defend, to tell her that, no, he can’t put her at risk, she has to stay and look after herself – but she’s not a child anymore. She hasn’t been a child for a long time. “I figured,” he says. 

Ciri’s eyes are bright. “In the morning,” she says. “At first light.” She gathers up her empty bowl, piles Vesemir’s on top, leaves Geralt’s by his elbow. “I’ll see to the horses,” she says, eyes blazing. “We need to be ready to move _fast_.” 

There’s a part of Geralt that wants to stop her, to calm her down, but the rest of him is caught up in her enthusiasm, her determination. She has a plan. It’s half-formed and half-baked, but it’s a plan. And the rest? The whys and wherefores? Well, they can work that out along the way. 

Vesemir is sitting on the other side of the table, still as death. 

Ciri sweeps out of the hall, intensity burning in her eyes, and leaves Geralt in the silence. 

Vesemir says nothing for a long, long moment. 

“What?” Geralt asks, teeth gritted. 

“You brought him here,” Vesemir says, quiet as the snow, dangerous as the cold. “To Kaer Morhen.” 

“Once,” Geralt says. “Years ago.” 

“You brought your bard to Kaer Morhen,” Vesemir says. “A human, nothing more. A human, and therefore harmless.” His gaze is hard. “Except, as it turns out, not so harmless.” 

“Vesemir,” Geralt says, voice tight. 

Vesemir’s nostrils flare. “You brought a Redanian spy to Kaer Morhen, Geralt,” he says. “You brought a Redanian spy to _our home_.” 

“He’s not—”

“ _He is_ ,” Vesemir hisses, fury blazing in his voice. “Whatever else he is, Geralt, your partner, your lover, he’s a _spy_. And you didn’t even _know._ ” He’s breathing harder, angry, so fucking angry. “How long have you known him now, your bard, Geralt? Thirty years? Thirty five? And _all that time_ he’s been lying to you.” 

“Stop,” Geralt growls. 

“You say that you know it’s him because you fucked him,” Vesemir says, flat and borderline crass. “I’m sure that’s right. But are you sure that you actually know who he is at all, Geralt? This man that you put so much faith in?” 

“Yes,” Geralt says, flat and blank. “Yes, I do. It’s not like he knows everything about me, Vesemir, about this place. About the Trials, about the things I’ve _done_. But he trusts me anyway, knowing that there are things I can’t tell him. So I trust him.” 

Vesemir’s jaw is tight. “He’s a spy, Geralt,” he says quietly. “Your beloved Jaskier, he lives a life of lies and subterfuge. He’s not one of us.” 

Geralt stands, his hands spasming tight at his side. “No,” he says. “He might not be a Witcher, Vesemir, but that doesn’t mean that you get to speak about him like that.” 

Vesemir’s gaze is flat. “He’s not welcome here, Geralt,” he says. “I can see that you trust him. But I don’t.” His expression is unrelenting. “I have to protect what’s left of our history, and I cannot be certain of his loyalties. So he is not welcome at Kaer Morhen.” 

“If he isn’t welcome here,” Geralt says, low and sure, “then I will not return.” 

Vesemir is quiet for a long moment, then he gets to his feet, shoulders heavy. “So be it,” he says, and goes. 

Geralt stands there a moment longer, hands dug so deep into fists it hurts, and doesn’t know what to think. 

They leave at first light, Geralt and Ciri, riding side by side out of Kaer Morhen with their horses snorting in the cold air. 

Vesemir doesn’t watch them go. 

The road to Novigrad is long and slow, especially as the snows pile higher. Their pace is agonising, infuriating, and Geralt finds himself sinking further and further into irritation and annoyance as they go. Ciri picks up on his mood, clearly, settles into her own quiet meditation as they ride, and when they sit across a campfire at night, the flames flickering across their faces, she just watches him, sharp, thoughtful. 

“What did Vesemir say to you?” she asks finally, a few weeks after they rode out of Kaer Morhen. “You’ve been acting strange since we left.” 

Geralt grits his teeth and doesn’t answer. 

Ciri studies him. “He doesn’t trust Jaskier, does he?” she asks, then snorts a laugh. “Because Vesemir is the Witcher to end all Witchers and he can’t square his damn world view with the idea that Jaskier could be a spy and still be trustworthy.” 

“He has us all to think about,” Geralt says, gruff and hoarse. “It’s a risk he can’t take.” 

Ciri is quiet for a moment. “You know he’s wrong, Geralt,” she says, an odd note in her voice. “Don’t you?”

Geralt looks up at her, at the angles of her face caught in the firelight. “I know,” he says, and thinks about Jaskier, about the way he looked at him at Alfrey’s high table with no recognition in his eyes, the way he put on another man’s life like it was nothing, the way he wrote Geralt a letter that was never delivered to say that he would be gone for a long time but that he was safe, he was okay, he was coming back. “I know,” he says again, softer, and Ciri looks at him across the fire with an expression he can’t decipher. 

Novigrad is surprisingly still in the winter, streets slippery with ice and eaves groaning under the weight of snow. The taverns, though, burn loud with fire and alcohol, overflowing with men and women who are doing whatever they can to chase away the bite of the cold, overindulging in anything they can afford. Ciri has been here more recently than Geralt so she leads them through the streets to an inn she knows, tucked away in the back streets near the port, where the innkeeper greets her with a smile and only gives Geralt the briefest of assessing glances. Their room is small but clean, and Ciri leaves her saddlebags on one of the narrow beds, washes her face in the basin of lukewarm water, then says, “There’s someone I need to talk to. She can get us in to see the spymaster.” 

“Me,” Geralt says. 

Ciri frowns. “Sorry?” 

“Get me in,” Geralt answers. 

Ciri’s expression turns thunderous. “I’m not waiting around while you go and shake Dijkstra down,” she says shortly. “I’m going with you, Geralt.” 

Geralt shakes his head. “Someone has to stay on the outside,” he says. “This isn’t something we’re trained for, Ciri, we don’t know what will happen. We could go into Dijkstra’s office and never come out again. We could disappear. So I will go in alone, and then if I don’t come out again, you’ll come and find me.” 

Ciri stares at him a moment longer, a muscle working in her jaw, but his logic is sound. “Fine,” she says, short and angry. “There’s a little tavern in the square down the street. I’ll meet you there when I’m done.” 

Geralt nods, and tries not to flinch as the door shuts behind her with a little more force than strictly necessary. 

It’s too quiet in that little inn room for him to stay there much longer. He sits on the edge of the bed for a while, staring at the blank whitewashed wall, but then he just finds himself thinking about another room with whitewashed walls, tucked away in a turret of a Dehovian castle and that fear starts to nag away at his gut, toxic, poisonous. Trust. Trust is everything, and he trusts Jaskier, of course he does, trusts him with everything he is, everything he could ever be. 

Of course he does. 

Geralt gets to his feet and goes to find this tavern. 

It’s a quaint little affair called The Fisherman’s Refuge, with a roaring fire in the large hearth and a scattering of solid oak tables. It’s moderately full, a handful of patrons sitting at the bar, a young bard strumming away absently in the corner, and Geralt gets an ale from the barman then takes a table tucked away in the darkest corner he can find to—what is it Jaskier always laughs at him for?—sit in the corner and brood. 

The ale is a little too sour for his taste, but he drinks it anyway. 

Jaskier was quieter than normal, that night in Dehove. He’s usually vibrant and vocal in bed, moans and laughs and pants, grabbing at Geralt, trying his best to shove him exactly where he wants him – but that night, wrapped in clean, plain sheets, he was… restrained. Fingers dug tight into Geralt’s shoulders, yes, but his lips gaped soundlessly, eyes shut, breath hitching rather than panting. Whispers rather than laughs. 

Then again, Geralt wasn’t exactly his usual self, either. 

He grits his teeth, finishes his ale, and gestures to the barman to bring him another. 

A tankard clanks down on the table in front of him, but the hand that brings it isn’t the barman. “Geralt of Rivia.” 

Geralt looks up, and shock twists through him like fire. The man in front of him is tall, staggeringly so, wearing expensive-looking clothes and an expression blazing with intelligence. It’s been a long time since Geralt met him but he never forgets a face. “Dijkstra,” he says, heart seizing in his chest. 

Sigismund Dijkstra, the head of the Redanian service service, takes a seat across from Geralt and pushes the ale towards his clenched fist. “I thought I might make this easier for both of us,” he says, voice unreadable. 

Geralt’s body thrums tight as a wire. “Make what easier?” he asks, grinding out every word like it’s poison. 

Dijkstra’s expression doesn’t change. “Come now,” he says, soft and sibilant. “You were in Dehove. You found out that your lover isn’t as dead as you were led to believe. And now you’re here, in Novigrad, and your Witcher girl Cirilla is asking after me.” He cocks his head, gaze like steel. “Don’t play the fool with me, Witcher,” he says. “It doesn’t suit you.” 

With difficulty, Geralt unfolds his fingers from their fist, reaches out, and wraps them around the tankard of ale. “Why are you here?” he asks, and then drinks. He just about manages to stop his hands shaking with rage. 

“To put an end to it,” Dijkstra answers. 

“To what?” 

“To this ridiculous situation,” Dijkstra says, and if Geralt didn’t know better he’d say that the fucking spymaster almost sounds _bored_. “What’s your plan, Geralt? To threaten me into releasing my operative from his service? To wave your Witcher swords in my face until I capitulate?”

“No,” Geralt says. 

Dijkstra’s eyebrow raises, just a little. “Oh really?” 

Geralt drinks again. His mouth is so very dry. “To offer you something else,” he says. 

A flash of surprise crosses Dijkstra’s saturnine face. “You came to offer me yourself in exchange,” he says slowly. “To offer me _your_ services on the condition that your lover be released from _his_.” He’s fucking _smiling_. “If I were a poet, I could write quite the ballad about this.” 

Geralt’s jaw is tight. “That’s my offer.” 

“I decline,” Dijkstra says, flat and unimpressed. “What services, exactly, did you think you could offer me, Witcher? Do I need monsters slain? Virgins defiled? Townsfolk terrified?” 

“I can go where others cannot,” Geralt says grimly. “I can fight battles that would defeat anyone else.” 

“In my line of work,” Dijkstra says, sitting back, “if a battle needs to be fought, it’s counted as something of a failure. And you’re a little conspicuous to be of much use as an assassin.” 

Geralt’s heart is thudding faster and faster in his chest. “Use me however you want,” he forces out. “Just let Jaskier go.” 

Dijkstra’s eyes flash. “You’re assuming,” he says, slow and steady, “that your Jaskier _wants_ to be let go.” 

Geralt has no response to that – but, of course, Dijkstra knew that before he said it. Every word that leaves that man’s mouth is calculated, precise, designed to cut and slice and twist, and Geralt knows he’s falling for it, knows he’s doing exactly what he’s supposed to, but he sits there in stony silence and forces the trembling in his hands to still. 

Dijkstra sees it all, of course. “This is the problem with people like you, Witcher,” he says. “You’re too honest, too trusting. Your lover disappears, lets you believe that he’s dead, and then when you find him again, like a miracle, like a dream, you believe everything he tells you. What did he say, Geralt? That I forced him? That I blackmailed him? Did I threaten your safety, perhaps?” He studies Geralt for a moment, gaze unreadable. “Did it ever occur to you, Geralt of Rivia,” he asks, slow and sensuous, “that everything Julian Pancratz does, he does because he _wants_ to?” 

“You’re lying,” Geralt says, flat and wooden. 

“Can you be sure of that?” Dijkstra asks, and it almost sounds like he’s genuinely interested in the answer. “Pancratz told his handler that you were in Dehove,” he says. “He reported that you were in the castle, but that he hadn’t made contact with you yet. Then he was instructed to get rid of you – and, lo and behold, the next morning you rode away of your own free will.” 

“Because he asked me to,” Geralt grinds out. 

Dijkstra’s eyes flash. “Exactly my point,” he says. “He asked you to. What else did he ask you to do? To intercede with me on his behalf? To speak for him? Or did he just tell you that he’d deal with me, that he’d be in touch when he could?” He pauses, studies Geralt’s expression. 

Geralt doesn’t answer. He doesn’t think he can. 

Dijkstra’s lips thin. “He’s already been sent to where I need him next,” he says, short and snapped. “You won’t find him even if you look. And do you know why that is, Witcher? It’s because he went willingly. He got rid of you, and then he went _willingly_.”

Blood is roaring in Geralt’s ears. “I don’t believe you,” he manages. 

Dijkstra laughs. It’s a bitter sound. “You’re wise not to,” he says. “Maybe you’re not a lost cause, after all. But you don’t need to believe my words. I have proof.” 

“Proof?” 

Dijkstra raises his hands, slow and steady, and reaches into his expensively-tailored coat. “It’s not a weapon, don’t worry,” he says, and draws out a small leather pouch. He tosses it onto the tabletop in front of Geralt, and it hits the wood with a surprisingly solid clunk. “It won’t bite.” Geralt doesn’t move. Dijkstra rolls his eyes. “Pick it up, Witcher,” he says shortly. “There’s your proof.” 

Geralt does not want to pick it up. 

Dijkstra sighs, reaches out, snaps the pouch open and shakes its contents out onto the table. “There,” he says. “Believe me now?” 

An amethyst amulet on a silver chain sits between them, and if Geralt catches it in the right light, there’s a tiny spark at the gemstone’s heart, just a little too bright to be anything but magic. 

Jaskier promised to keep it on. 

“Let it go, Witcher,” Dijkstra says, getting to his feet. “Let _him_ go. Because he’s already done the same to you. And if you continue on this fool’s errand, if you _threaten_ me, if you try to meddle in my affairs in whatever limited way your Witcher sentimentality allows you, it will not end well. For you.” 

Geralt looks up at Dijkstra, and doesn’t speak. 

After a moment, Dijkstra thumbs a coin out of his pocket and tosses it onto the table. “For your ale,” he says, and goes. 

Geralt sits at the table, fingers curled around the mug of ale, and stares numbly at the tiny amethyst amulet, sitting curled in its silver chain, sparking in the firelight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for my hugely erratic posting schedule for this fic - but it's done!

Geralt is still sitting in the same place when Ciri finds him, staring fixedly into the middle distance, tankard of ale now empty. The amulet still lies on the tabletop, untouched, and Ciri eyes it with a frown as she sits down across from him. “Geralt?” she asks. “What’s this?” 

“It’s an amulet,” Geralt says, his voice numb. 

Ciri picks it up, swings it on its chain, catching in the firelight. “Where’d you get it?” 

“Yennefer,” Geralt answers. 

Ciri frowns. “Yen’s here?” 

Geralt shakes his head. “She gave it to me years ago,” he says. “So I could call her if I needed her.”

Ciri nods her understanding, pulls up her sleeve, flashes a silver bracelet engraved with unfamiliar runes. “Same,” she says. “I guess she likes to keep an eye on us.” 

Geralt’s jaw is tight. “I gave it to Jaskier,” he says. “Before I left Dehove. So he had a way out.”

Ciri stares at him for a moment, and she knows him more than well enough to know that something’s wrong. Something? _Everything_ is wrong. “I’m assuming,” she says slowly, “that you’d be a lot happier right now if Jaskier was the one who gave it to you.”

Geralt snarls. “Dijkstra.” 

“He was here?” Ciri barks, and then: “ _Fuck_. What did he do? What did he say to you?” 

“A lot of shit,” Geralt growls. All of a sudden his throat is dry, so fucking dry. He needs a drink. “Tried to tell me that Jaskier lied to me, that he’s _Dijkstra’s_.” 

“He’s lying,” Ciri says shortly. 

“Of course he’s fucking lying,” Geralt snaps, reaches out, snatches the amulet out of Ciri’s hand. “But then how the fuck did he get this?” 

Ciri’s eyes are cold. “Do you think he has Jaskier?” she asks quietly. 

“I don’t know,” Geralt says, teeth gritted, then all of a sudden it’s too much, way too much. He slams his fist down on the table, loud and hard, then pushes to his feet, storms to the bar and gets a fucking drink. Which he drinks at the bar, then gets another and goes back to Ciri. 

The amulet is still clenched in his fist. 

Ciri watches him, forehead furrowed. “Use it,” she says flatly. “The amulet. Summon Yennefer.” 

“Why?” 

“Because she can help?” Ciri says, like it’s obvious. “It’s her amulet, Geralt. If Jaskier carried it, then maybe she can use it to, I don’t know, track him, scry for him or something.” She takes his ale, takes a long drag. “And besides,” she says flatly, “I think we might need all the help we can get, magical or not.” 

Geralt pauses, the amethyst cool against his skin. “The friend you went to meet,” he says. “What did she say?” 

Ciri shakes her head. “Nothing solid,” she says quietly. “She told me that Dijkstra’s office is… chaotic, I think was the word she used. That a lot of people are on edge, and a lot of people are talking even less than they used to.” Her jaw is tight. “Which doesn’t really help, does it? Because we don’t know _why_ they’re on edge. We don’t know anything. This isn’t our fucking world.” 

Geralt thinks about Jaskier, about the broadening of his shoulders, the heavying of his steps, the arrogance in his eyes and the foreign lilt in his voice. It’s effortless for him. It’s the most natural thing in the world. 

He takes the tankard back from Ciri, downs the rest in one. “The inn,” he says. “It’s private there.” 

Ciri nods, her eyes flashing. 

In the inn, in their little room, Geralt takes a breath, closes the amethyst that should be around Jaskier’s neck in his hand, and says, “Yen.” Silence stretches between them, heavy, oppressive, and there are so many things that Geralt doesn’t know, so many questions he has no answers to, and all he can do is sit on the edge of his narrow bed and wait, wait in the emptiness, wait with the memory of Jaskier’s smile held sacred in his mind. 

The amulet warms against his skin, and Geralt smells the tang of ozone in the air that precedes a portal. 

Yennefer steps through into their rented Novigrad room, hair perfectly curled, lipstick immaculate, heavy white fur wrapped around the shoulders of her black dress. Her gaze lands on Ciri first and immediately softens, then flicks to Geralt – and she frowns. “Geralt?” 

“Yen,” Geralt says. “You sound… surprised.” 

“I am, a little,” Yennefer says. 

“Who were you expecting?” Ciri asks, a slow realisation dawning in her voice – and, oh, all of a sudden Geralt gets it, too. 

He’s on his feet before he really knows what he’s doing. “Jaskier,” he says flatly. “You were expecting Jaskier.” 

“The last time I was summoned by that amulet,” Yennefer says, “Jaskier was the one wearing it.” 

“You’ve seen him,” Geralt says, at the same time as Ciri surges to her feet and snaps, “ _What?_ ”

Yennefer looks between them, apparently unruffled, but Geralt has known her long enough to be able to tell that something is very wrong. Her gaze lands on Geralt’s hand, on the amethyst and the silver chain, and he can smell her sudden surge of apprehension. “Why do you have that, Geralt?” she asks in a tone of voice that brooks no argument. 

“Dijkstra gave it to me,” Geralt answers, teeth gritted. “After selling me a crock of shit about Jaskier coming back into the fold and turning his back on us.” 

Yennefer’s lips twist. “Shit.” 

“What happened?” Ciri snaps. “You saw Jaskier, Yen – he summoned you? He used the amulet?” Her face goes pale. “Is he in danger?” 

Yennefer’s gaze is inscrutable. “He asked me not to repeat what we spoke about,” she says finally, and Geralt’s heart ratchets up a gear. She reaches out, takes the amulet from his fist. It dangles from her finger, swinging a soft arc through the air. “But this was not supposed to happen.” 

Geralt is having to fight the urge to shake her. “ _Yen_ ,” he grinds. 

Yennefer looks up at him, her lips pressed tight together. “Jaskier used the amulet the day he left Dehove,” she says, voice crisp. “I stepped through to a windy heath and a man I thought was dead. It was… a surprise. But he explained everything, what he was doing there, how you found him, Geralt. And then he asked for my help.” 

“Help with what?” Ciri asks. 

“A portal,” Yennefer answers. “To somewhere in Temeria.”

“Where?” Geralt snaps. 

Yennefer shakes her head. “He’s not there now,” she says. “And he’s not in the village in Cintra I took him to next, or the forest at the foothills of the mountains.” Her jaw is tense, and Geralt can tell that she’s deciding how much to tell him, how much to keep back. “I left him just inside the Redanian border,” she says finally. “Maybe a fortnight ago.” 

“Why?” Ciri asks, frowning. “What was he doing?”

“I don’t know,” Yennefer says. “He wouldn’t tell me. He just said that he was… sorting things out.”

“Sorting things out for _what?_ ” Ciri asks, her voice tending towards shrill and strident. “To come back? To fuck Dijkstra up? Or to _run?_ ”

“He wouldn’t tell me,” Yennefer says, a tightness in her voice that Geralt hasn’t heard for a long time. “Said it was better if I didn’t know.” She meets Geralt’s gaze, her expression troubled. “When we parted ways the last time,” she says, “he asked me to meet him here, in Novigrad, four days from now.” 

Geralt’s mouth slicks sour. “Four days from now,” he echoes. 

Yennefer nods. “In the market square,” she says. “He wouldn’t tell me why.”

“Couldn’t you read him?” Geralt asks. 

“He asked me not to.” 

“And you did what he asked you to?” Geralt snaps. “Fuck, Yen, when did you start rolling over to all Jaskier’s whims?”

Yennefer’s eyes flash. “I understand that you’re scared, Geralt,” she says quietly, “but do not speak to me like that.” She’s cold as the frost, as the snow outside, slicked across the city. 

Geralt grits his teeth, and acquiesces. 

“Does that meeting still stand?” Ciri asks, arms folded. 

Yennefer studies the amulet in her hand, the chain wrapped delicately around her fingertips. “I don’t know,” she says quietly. “And I know you hoped that I could use this to find him, Ciri, but I can’t. The magic in the amethyst is my own. If I tried to base any spell on it, the only person it would find would be me.” She sighs, reaches out, folds the amulet back into Geralt’s nerveless grip. “Jaskier set a rendezvous,” she says. “The only thing we can do is keep it.” 

“I don’t like it,” Geralt says. 

“No one fucking likes it, Geralt,” Ciri says shortly. “But it looks like it’s the only choice we have.” 

Geralt stalks the streets of Novigrad that night, unable to sleep, unable to think. The cobbles are icy underfoot, even more so when it starts to snow a little before dawn, and he watches as the townsfolk slip and slide their way around their home, some laughing, some cursing, some just moving so glacially slowly it barely looks like they’re going anywhere at all. 

He’s pretty sure he’s being followed, but fuck it, what’s Dijkstra going to do? Come back and dump Jaskier’s corpse in his lap? 

Well, Geralt has grieved him once before. 

When the sun rises, cold and wan, Yennefer comes to find him. 

He’s down by the water, watching the harbourmaster argue with the captain of a small schooner, something to do with barrels of sturgeon, when he smells Yennefer’s distinctive perfume. “You haven’t slept,” she says, coming to stand beside him. 

Geralt doesn’t answer. 

“He asked me not to tell you,” Yennefer says, after a moment. “He asked me to keep you out of this as much as possible.” 

“Why?” Geralt asks tightly. 

Yennefer shrugs, that white fur wrapped tight around her shoulders. The lightly-falling snow catches bright in her black hair, then melts, quick as lightning. “I just read your bard’s mind,” she says. “I don’t know his heart.” 

Geralt breathes out sharply. “I’m beginning to think that I don’t, either.” 

Yennefer doesn’t answer for a long moment. “He’s still the same person, Geralt,” she says softly. “He still mocks me more than any other human dares. He still sings to himself when he thinks he’s alone, still flirts outrageously with every barmaid and stablehand he meets.” 

“But he’s not,” Geralt answers, gaze fixed on the captain and the harbourmaster, now arguing over cod. “He’s not the same. He can’t be.” He breathes out. “He kept this from me, Yen. For years.” 

“You kept your djinn-wish from me,” Yennefer points out. 

Geralt snorts. “And look how that turned out.” 

“What I _mean_ ,” Yennefer says sharply, “is that he’s not the only one who keeps secrets.” She pauses, just for a second. “Besides, everything didn’t turn out so dreadfully between us, did it? We have Ciri.” 

Geralt bows his head, and doesn’t answer. 

“People are complicated, Geralt,” Yennefer says. “You know that as well as I do.” 

Geralt is quiet for a moment, watching as the harbourmaster and the captain shake hands over something to do with caviar. “How is he?” he asks eventually, the question that’s been plucking at his heart since Yennefer arrived. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Yennefer smile. “Afraid,” she says. “And frantic in that way he gets when he’s afraid. But determined. And confident that whatever he’s doing is going to work.” 

Geralt hums. “He’s confident about a lot of things that don’t work,” he observes. 

Yennefer laughs. “Have faith in him, Geralt,” she says. “After all the years he’s given to you, he deserves that much.” She doesn’t speak for a moment, studying the sprawl of activity and humanity across Novigrad’s harbour. “It was good to see him,” she says. “Despite the circumstances. It was good to see him alive.” Another pause, just for a fraction of a heartbeat. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you.” 

_Like dying,_ Geralt wants to say. _Like being reborn._ He can’t bring himself to form the words, but this is Yennefer. He doesn’t need to say it for her to hear. 

Yennefer slips her hand into the crook of his elbow and squeezes tight. 

The day that Jaskier picked for his rendezvous with Yennefer in Novigrad’s market square is, appropriately enough, market day. The day dawns bright, the skies clear and blue, but it’s still bitterly, bitterly cold. The air gusts with frozen breath, and there’s a thin rime of ice over the top of the barrels of fresh fish set up next to the entrance to the market square. Stands sell hot food and hot drinks, and the smell of frying meat and onions floods the air – along with the usual stench of any market across the Continent, live animals, new leather, ironmongery and local delicacies, and of course the musty, sour scent of sweat and people. It might be freezing cold, cold enough to leave frost coalescing in the ends of Geralt’s hair, but people will always come to market. 

Geralt settles in in the shadow of a furrier’s stall that’s set up next to the secondary entrance to the square, a position that affords him a fairly uninterrupted view of the market and everyone in it. He can see Yennefer waiting on the other side of the square, sitting with a glass of hot mulled wine under a covered area next to a stall stinking of spices and alcohol, but Ciri has done what Ciri does best and hidden herself away somewhere, out of sight. That’s okay, though, because Geralt knows she’s still here, waiting, waiting. 

Jaskier’s instructions to Yennefer, predictably, didn’t include a time, so they’re settling in for the long haul. 

Geralt breathes in the scent of Novigrad’s rampant humanity, and waits. 

What catches his eye, though, isn’t Jaskier. 

An hour or so before midday, he starts to notice a handful of people trickling in who don’t look like traditional market goers. Sure, they poke around at the stalls, buy a bun from a baker, haggle with a cobbler over the price of a pair of shoes, but their clothes are done in muted colours and their jackets and cloaks bulge in all the places that they’d bulge to cover hidden weapons. Geralt watches as half a dozen of them take up positions like his, sheltered but with a good view, strategically placed to cover the whole square, and settle in to wait. 

The person they’re waiting for arrives in short order. 

Dijkstra’s cloak is fur-lined and pulled tight around his shoulders, his dark hair ruffled, his cheeks red in the cold. He doesn’t speak to any of his men, doesn’t even look at them, just goes to the frozen fountain in the centre of the square, and waits. 

Geralt breathes, and forces his heart to beat as steadily as it always does. 

_You’ve seen him?_ Yennefer’s voice echoes in his head. 

_I have,_ Geralt answers. 

_Any sign of Jaskier?_

_Not yet._

_They know we’re here._

_And we know they’re here,_ Geralt observes. 

_So we wait?_

_We wait._

At her table, Yennefer turns a page of her book, and sips her wine. 

The market swirls around them, busier and busier as the sun sweeps closer to midday. The smells of food and the shouts of the hawkers get louder and louder, clanging in Geralt’s sensitive hearing like temple bells, and Dijkstra doesn’t move. He’s waiting, just like they are. 

Waiting for the same thing? 

Geralt lets out a long breath, white and misty in the frozen air. 

The minutes tick by. 

A busy Novigradian street streams along behind Geralt’s shoulder, and periodically townsfolk come trotting past him, chattering and eager to browse and spend and sell. He’s as acutely aware of them as he’s aware of everything else in the market, but they’re not a priority. There’s no one watching him from that street, as far as he can tell, none of Dijkstra’s thugs monitoring his movements – and, if he’s honest, the vast majority of his attention is very much focused on Dijkstra himself, on the slimy, supercilious arsehole who thinks he can just take and take and take. 

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice until it’s already happened. 

A familiar scent slicks sharp in the air around him. Footsteps sound on the cobbles, closer than anyone else dares come. And a long-fingered hand wraps around Geralt’s elbow, briefer than a thought, wraps and squeezes and releases. 

It takes Geralt another heartbeat to realise that it’s Jaskier. 

Jaskier walks past him without any other indication that he knows he’s there, and Geralt feels his heart practically seize in his chest. He stands up straighter, eyes wild, but doesn’t follow, doesn’t chase, doesn’t track. He stays where he is, because he thinks he might know what’s about to happen, because he _hopes_ he knows what’s about to happen – so he’ll stay, he’ll stay and watch, he’ll stay and guard, and if Jaskier needs him to, he’ll rain blood and slaughter down on anyone who dares touch him. 

Geralt’s chest is heaving. 

Jaskier is _himself_ , silver-dark hair loose and unbraided, wrapped in a dark woollen cloak with a fox fur collar, boots polished to a fine shine despite the slush and snow underfoot. He weaves through the crowded market square with ease, his dark blue doublet flashing with the swirl of his cloak, and heads straight for the stall next to Yennefer. She’s noticed him, too, and so has Dijkstra, but no one moves, no one reacts, no one does a thing as Jaskier smiles at the stallholder, passing over a couple of coins in exchange for two steaming mugs. He’s relaxed, he’s calm, and Geralt is so on edge right now that he can hear every word as if he were standing right next to him. 

Jaskier turns from the stall, brushing so close to Yennefer’s table that the hem of his cloak ruffles the pages of her book, and goes straight to Dijkstra. 

“Pancratz,” Dijkstra says, firmly neutral. 

“Dijkstra,” Jaskier answers, and hands Dijkstra one of the mugs. “Mulled cider,” he says by way of explanation. “That little stall there does the best mulled cider on the Continent, I swear.” He takes a sip, gloved hands wrapped around the mug, and beams. “Delicious. Honestly, Sigismund, you have to try it.” 

Dijkstra sips. “It is good, you’re right,” he says, sounding mildly surprised, and sips again. 

Geralt briefly wonders if it’s mandatory that all meetings with Dijkstra involve an offering of drinks, but then realises that that’s really not relevant right now and his mind is fracturing because he’s so tense. He refocuses. 

“I was surprised that you contacted me to ask for this meeting,” Dijkstra says, cool and neutral, giving nothing away. “And even more surprised that you chose this as the location.” He cocks his head. “Was it for the cider?” 

“That’s one factor,” Jaskier says. “The other was that I didn’t really want to be in a confined space with you and risk being killed again. More permanently, this time.” He shrugs. “Figured a public place might be more sensible.” 

Dijkstra sips his cider. “I have a dozen operatives in this market right now,” he says, a disinterest in his tone that belies the threat in his words. “A word from me, and you won’t be tasting that cider ever again.”

Jaskier snorts. “You have a dozen men,” he says, nodding sagely. “I have two Witchers and a sorceress. You really want to play those odds?” 

Something twists in Geralt’s chest, something warm and protective and fucking _loving._

Dijkstra is silent for a moment. “What do you want, Julian?” he asks, a snap in his voice that Geralt hasn’t heard before. 

Jaskier drinks slowly, languorously, drawing out the moment as long as he fancies. “I assume,” he says, offhandedly, nonchalantly, “that you’ve heard about the state of play in Holyworth?” 

Dijkstra’s expression is, if possible, even more neutral than before. “I have.” 

“And the… _predicament_ , shall we say, of your asset in the Temerian royal court?” 

“Get to the point,” Dijkstra snaps, and Geralt blinks. He’s rattled. _Dijkstra_ is rattled. 

“Oh, but this _is_ my point,” Jaskier snaps right back. “You changed the rules of the game, Dijkstra. I was quite happy to go along with your requests, so happy, in fact, that I forgot the fact that you’re a manipulative bastard who respects precisely nothing that isn’t his own particular brand of power.” He shrugs. “So I figured that the best way to get your attention was to show you that I can be _just_ as powerful as you, if I want to be.” 

Dijkstra scoffs. “Hardly,” he says. “The Temerian asset is already cleared. And the incident in Holyworth? A corps of the Redanian elite national guard is on its way there right now. It’ll be dealt with within the week.” 

Geralt can’t see Jaskier’s face at this angle, can’t see the brightness of his eyes, but he can hear the steel in his voice from across the market square. “And are you willing to take the risk that that’s all I can do?” 

“Bluffing and misdirection,” Dijkstra says. “You caused a few ripples in an ocean, Pancratz. The tide still turns on schedule.” 

“And I thought I was supposed to be the one who talks in metaphors.” 

“Metaphors can be useful.” 

“They can also get in the way of the truth,” Jaskier says, sipping his cider. “How’s this for bluntness, Dijkstra: I will expose your Nilfgaardian operation. The whole thing.” 

“Empty threats are worse than metaphors.” 

Jaskier laughs. “You know I can,” he says. “All those messages I passed on for you at concerts and seminars in the south? At dinners and soirées in Oxenfurt? And the year and a half I just spent in Dehove? Do you really think I’m stupid enough not to keep records of _everything_?” He snorts. “I’ve spent pretty much my whole adult life under your thumb,” he says. “I know how this game works.” 

Dijkstra studies him a moment longer, then takes a long drink of his cider. “What do you want?” he asks, quieter, quieter. 

“I want my life back,” Jaskier says, flat and bare and so blunt it hurts Geralt’s heart. “The life you stole from me. I want to just live my damn life in peace, and I don’t want to have to jump whenever you clap your fucking hands.” 

“And you think that proving yourself to be a threat is the best way to do that?” Dijkstra asks, silky smooth. 

“I think that you only respond to power,” Jaskier answers. “I think that’s the only language you know how to speak. I also think that you know I’m a man of my word. I won’t intrigue against you, I won’t get involved. But in exchange, you’ll leave me and mine alone. In perpetuity.” 

Dijkstra doesn’t answer for a moment. “I drop this mug of delicious mulled cider on the ground,” he says, “and one of my operatives will put a crossbow bolt through your eye.” Geralt stiffens, hand flexing for his sword. “Your bodyguards won’t be able to stop that, will they? They’re too far away to react in time.” 

“True,” Jaskier says. “But then you’ll have killed me for the second time, this time for real, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want to know what Geralt of Rivia will do to you under those circumstances.” He sips his cider. “He might not be quick enough to save me,” he says, “but he’d be more than quick enough to eviscerate you.” 

“Witchers don’t kill humans,” Dijkstra says. 

“You’re not human,” Jaskier says, flat and empty and surprisingly bitter. “You’re a spy, Dijkstra. _The_ spy. To a Witcher, that makes you more of a monster than the monsters.” 

Dijkstra is watching Jaskier, eyes beady-bright. “Non interference,” he says eventually. “From this day onwards. You are no longer my operative, and you are therefore no longer obliged to carry out any work on my behalf.” 

Jaskier nods. “That’s the ticket.” 

“You cannot tell anyone at Oxenfurt the truth,” Dijkstra says. “Confidentiality still applies. And I will have people watching you to make sure that you keep your damn mouth shut. No fucking ballads.” 

“Agreed,” Jaskier says. “And my friends?”

Dijkstra bares his teeth in an animalistic smile. “Under the same terms.” 

Jaskier nods. 

“Whatever story you spin for the university in Oxenfurt,” Dijkstra says, “has to be cleared with my office in advance.” 

“Can _that_ be a ballad?” 

“I can still have you executed right now,” Dijkstra says. 

“Yeah, but you won’t,” Jaskier jibes. He laughs, short and sharp. “Should’ve taken Geralt up on his offer, Sigismund. Then at least you could have got something out of this whole mess aside from a new understanding of the word ‘hubris’.” 

“You’re an arrogant fool,” Dijkstra spits. 

“And you’re a sore loser,” Jaskier banters back. “We make quite a pair.” 

Dijkstra’s nostrils flare. “Get out,” he says. “Take your mutants and your witch with you.”

Jaskier finishes off the last of his cider, shoves the mug into Dijkstra’s hands, and makes an elegant leg. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he says, then turns on his heel, and goes. 

There’s a strange buzzing in Geralt’s head that takes him a moment to place. With a start, he realises it’s joy. 

Jaskier goes to Yennefer first, offers her his hand with a flourish and smiles broadly when she accepts. They walk side by side through the market square, the sorceress and the spy, and then Ciri somehow appears out of nowhere to join them, her footsteps light and tripping, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. Ciri and Yennefer flank Jaskier like the bodyguards Dijkstra dismissed them as, Yennefer’s hand in Jaskier’s, Ciri’s shoulder pressed against his, and it’s only when they get closer that Geralt realises the physical contact isn’t just comfort. It’s _support_. They’re physically holding him upright because Jaskier is shaking so much, his face white as a sheet, his fingers clenched so tight around Yennefer’s that her fingertips are pinched purple. 

Geralt’s gut twists, and he steps forward to help. 

“Don’t touch me,” Jaskier says, low enough that they’re the only ones who can hear. He’s still smiling, still beaming like he’s won, like he’s the victor, but Geralt knows him more than well enough to see that it’s a rictus of an expression. “We just need to get out of here before he changes his mind about the whole crossbow situation.”

Geralt nods, jaw set, and falls into step. 

They’re not followed back to the inn – at least, they’re not followed as far as Geralt can tell. He could also only count six or so of Dijkstra’s men in the market when there were supposedly a dozen, so that doesn’t reassure him hugely. But, well, then again. 

Secrets and lies. 

Jaskier collapses onto the narrow bed Geralt has been barely sleeping in, his hands trembling so badly the rings on his fingers clatter loudly against the wooden bedframe. “Shit,” he says, the words hissing out between his teeth. “Shit, _fuck_.” He spreads his fingers wide, digs them into his thighs, curls into himself and for a moment, Geralt thinks he might vomit. He’s frozen in the doorway, not knowing what to do, but it’s okay because Yennefer’s moving, pulling Jaskier’s head up, touching her fingertips to his forehead with a muttered spell. 

Jaskier stills immediately, his breathing calming, his heartbeat yammering slower in his chest. “Thanks, Yen,” he says, sounding slightly dazed but significantly less likely to throw up. “I needed that.” 

“Are you okay?” Ciri asks quietly. 

“I’m okay,” Jaskier says, the dazed note fading quickly from his voice. “Just had a minor panic attack. Dijkstra, you know.” He shakes his head. “I thought I’d be _fine_ with standing in the middle of the market with all those armed thugs not-so-subtly staring at me. I’m a _performer_ , I _perform_ , that’s what I do.” His hands are still trembling, Geralt notices, but not enough to be worrying. “Turns out it’s a lot more terrifying when your life is on the line,” Jaskier says faintly. “Gods, why did I decide it was a good idea to _threaten_ Sigismund fucking _Dijkstra_?! I pass information and occasionally go undercover as a spoiled dandy, I’m not a fucking _player_! He could snap me like a _twig_.” 

Ciri goes to sit beside him, steadies him against her shoulder, takes his hand in hers and grips tight. “You’re safe,” she says. “He can’t get you. We won’t let him.” 

Jaskier looks at her sideways, his smile lopsided, his eyes too bright. “Thank you,” he says, soft and tender, and all of a sudden Geralt realises this is the first time Ciri’s seen him since he didn’t die. “Good to see you again, little Witcher girl,” Jaskier says, warmth threaded through his voice, and pulls Ciri into a hug. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers into her hair as she crushes him tight. “I didn’t know.” 

“It’s okay,” Ciri says firmly, eyes squeezed shut, her fingertips clawing into the thick wool of Jaskier’s cloak. “It wasn’t your fault. None of it.” 

“Is it done?” Yennefer asks. “Whatever you had me portalling you around the Continent for: is it done?” 

“It’s done,” Geralt rumbles, and Jaskier’s blue, blue eyes flick to him, full of something he can’t quite define. “I heard,” he says by way of explanation. 

Jaskier huffs a laugh. “I figured you were probably eavesdropping,” he says. “You and your Witcher hearing.” 

“What did you do?” Ciri asks, pulling back and surreptitiously wiping at her eyes. 

“Something at the Temerian court,” Geralt supplies, “and something in a place called Holyworth.” 

Jaskier’s lips twist. “I got a high-ranking operative thrown in jail on charges of outraging the Temerian king’s daughter,” he says, “and staged a minor coup in Holyworth.” He shrugs. “I needed to show Dijkstra that forcing me to toe the line was more trouble than I was worth. I guess I succeeded.” 

Yennefer is staring at Jaskier like he’s grown a second head. “How minor is minor?”

Jaskier shrugs. “It was bloodless,” he says. “A separatist area on the border. They’ve been getting antsy about Redanian rule for years, but they’re pacifists at heart. When the national guard turns up, they won’t resist.” 

“So it’s done,” Ciri says. 

Jaskier nods, his shoulders slumped, his whole body reeking of exhaustion. He should rest. Geralt should let him sleep. 

“Yen,” he says, his voice hoarse, “Ciri. Give us a minute.” 

Something in Jaskier’s jaw tightens, and he doesn’t meet Geralt’s gaze. 

Yennefer goes, and after a moment Ciri follows. She stares at Geralt as she leaves, green eyes surprisingly stern, and when the door closes behind them, silence hangs heavy over the room. 

Geralt remembers another whitewashed room like this, round as the turret it nestled in, remembers the uncontrollable need to hold, to touch, to smell. 

He sits down on the edge of Ciri’s bed, and it feels like there’s a whole world in the gap between them. 

The silence stretches long. 

Geralt clears his throat. “What will you tell your friends in Oxenfurt?” he asks eventually, because it seems like a neutral enough question to begin with. 

Jaskier glances up at him. “Something to do with magic,” he says shortly. “A curse, maybe, one that made it look like I was dead. Maybe I’ll go the fairytale route. I was trapped in an enchanted tower until I was rescued by my noble prince. Or something more prosaic: kidnapped, held captive. Probably to guarantee your good behaviour, something like that. Refocus the story around you, that’s what people seem to believe.” His lips twist wryly. “Although I imagine Dijkstra’s people will edit out all the flair.” 

Geralt studies his hands. “Why did you tell me to confront Dijkstra?” he asks. 

Jaskier sighs. “As a distraction,” he says, his voice twisted with regret. He pauses, just for a moment. “I knew what you’d offer him,” he says softly. “Yourself, right? In exchange for me.” Geralt nods slowly. “And I knew that he wouldn’t accept, because he’s Dijkstra and he would never lower himself to accepting the bargaining of a Witcher. But he would track you and waste his time tailing you, and in those spaces, I could work.” 

Geralt’s throat is thick. “He had the amulet I gave you.” 

Jaskier’s expression stills. “I had a narrow escape in the forests south of here,” he says quietly. “Dijkstra’s people had some sorcerer in their pay. I think they’d figured out I was getting around by portal, so they set up magical sensors all around me. I had to leave the amulet behind to avoid setting them off. I thought I hid it well enough that they wouldn’t find it, but I guess not.” 

They sit in silence for another moment. 

“You don’t have to be here, Geralt,” Jaskier says eventually, his voice so quiet, so small. “You don’t have to stay.”

Geralt doesn’t know how to answer that. 

Jaskier doesn’t look at him. “I understand that things have changed,” he says in that subdued, stamped-down tone. “I understand that I lied to you, and that you can’t just forget that. It’s okay. You don’t have to stay with me.” He laughs, a horrible, bitter sound. “In Dehove, you were just happy I was alive, I know that. But I imagine that it’s all had time to sink in and you have a… different perspective now. On me. On – us.” 

Geralt finds his voice. “You told Dijkstra,” he says slowly, “that I would think of him as a monster.” 

Jaskier glances up, his smile wry. “I think I said _worse_ than a monster, actually.” 

“Because he’s a spy.” 

Jaskier shrugs, and doesn’t answer. 

“Is that how you think I see you?” Geralt asks. 

Jaskier sighs, his gaze returning to his fingers, long and slender in their dark leather gloves. “You’re a Witcher, Geralt,” he says flatly. “You live by a code, most of which is to do with honesty, integrity, and loyalty, despite what people sometimes think. And I’ve spent most of my life being the exact opposite of honest and loyal.” 

Geralt grits his jaw. “You should have told me,” he says. 

Jaskier snorts. “What, waltz up to the Witcher I just met and say, _hey, I’m Jaskier, mostly a bard but sometimes an errand boy for the Redanian secret service_? Yeah, that would have gone down well.” 

Geralt shakes his head. “After the war,” he says tightly. “When Dijkstra used me against you. You should have _told_ me.”

“Ah, but you see,” Jaskier says, faux-sage, mock-wise, “if I’d told you then, I would have had to tell about _everything_. And then we would have just had this conversation a decade ago instead of today.” He shakes his head, buries his face in his hands. “You’re a fucking _Witcher_ , Geralt,” he barks. “Your life is _fundamentally incompatible_ with mine.” 

“You didn’t want to lose me,” Geralt says. 

“I still don’t,” Jaskier says, sharp and brittle, “but I guess I will anyway.” 

“You won’t.” 

Jaskier snorts, throws his head back, laughs – and for the first time, Geralt sees that there are tears in his eyes. “Yeah, right,” he spits. “Look me in the eye, Geralt, and tell me that you honestly still love me after all this. Because I wouldn’t. I would be fucking livid. I would _hate_ me.” 

Geralt slides to his knees in front of Jaskier, catches his face between his hands, looks him dead in the eye and says, “I still love you, Jaskier.” 

“Bullshit,” Jaskier snaps, pulling away – but Geralt just holds him still, leans forward, kisses him firmly. “Geralt, you don’t have to,” Jaskier says, fainter, resistance fading, and so Geralt just kisses him again. “I don’t understand,” Jaskier whispers. “Why?” 

“Because you were blackmailed and manipulated,” Geralt says. “Because you were taken advantage of. Because you staged a fucking coup to get yourself out.” 

“Only a minor one.” 

“I don’t care how fucking minor it was!” Geralt snaps. “Damnit, Jaskier, I trust you with my life. I trust you with Ciri’s life, with Yennefer’s life. And until you do something to actively betray me, I will continue to trust you.” 

“I manipulated you,” Jaskier says flatly. “In Dehove. I knew what I had to do, but I didn’t tell you. I used you as an unwitting distraction. I sent you into Dijkstra’s way without fair warning.” 

“I would have done it willingly.” 

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “That’s so not the point.” 

“It’s a bit the point.” 

“ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier says. “Will you stop? Please? Will you just tell me you hate me, tell me we’re done, tell me I fucked everything up so I can go back to my little hole of self pity and die there?” 

Geralt sits back on his heels, still kneeling on the ground at Jaskier’s feet. Jaskier watches him suspiciously, wary of this sudden change of pace, and then Geralt says, “I took you to Kaer Morhen.” 

“You did,” Jaskier says slowly, clearly not quite sure where this is going. 

“You could find it again, if you tried.” 

Jaskier shrugs. “Probably,” he says. “Once you find the path, I remember it being pretty straightforward.” 

“And I imagine that that information is valuable to someone like Dijkstra.” 

Horror flashes across Jaskier’s face. “Geralt, I would _never_ ,” he says. “They would _kill_ me before I told _anyone_ that. You have to know that, you _have_ to.” He surges forward, grabs Geralt’s shoulders. “I know what that place means to you,” he says, quiet, intense, “I would never put that at risk.” 

“I know,” Geralt says, and something that’s been nestled tight and bitter in his gut since Vesemir’s outburst all of a sudden releases, slips free, vanishes into nothing. “I know, Jaskier,” he says, and something else crumbles in his chest, a barrier, a hesitation, and he’s pushing forward, catching Jaskier in his arms, kissing him with a desperation that borders on violence. Jaskier’s hands are in his hair and his legs hitch around his waist as Geralt presses him down into the narrow bed, still wrapped in his cloak with the fox fur collar, still with those shiny boots clinging to his calves, still here, still alive, still the same man he always was. 

“Please don’t tell me that I’m dreaming this,” Jaskier breathes. 

“You’re not dreaming this,” Geralt answers, and kisses him again. 

“I’ve imagined telling you _so many times_ ,” Jaskier says, eyes still shining so fucking bright. “In my head, it never ended like this.” 

“And you call yourself a poet,” Geralt rumbles, and kisses him again. 

It’s not the end of it, of course. 

Jaskier can’t just pick up his life where he left off because, well, he’s dead. There are records that have to be altered, gravestones that have to be dug up, and Geralt never expected how much time he’d have to spend at the fucking _records office_ in order to bring Jaskier back from the dead. Geralt has waited in more lines than he ever dreamt he’d have to, but every time he turns around and Jaskier isn’t there, every time he gets out of bed before Geralt wakes, every time he doesn’t smell him on his clothes, well, every time it seizes his heart in his chest. 

So Geralt waits in lines with Jaskier, and helps him fix the paperwork. 

They go back to Oxenfurt in the spring, and the first thing they do is go to knock on Shani’s door. Geralt sees the moment she sees Jaskier, sees the shock, the surprise, the confusion – and then he sees Shani’s face crumple with the realisation, sees the tears flood down her cheeks, sees her grab Jaskier and pull him close and then collapse, her legs going out from under her. Jaskier sinks to the ground with her in his arms, and they sit in the doorway to Shani’s room, half in the public staircase, half sprawled across the carpet of her sitting room, as Geralt stands by and listens to Shani’s sobs of relief. 

“I felt you _die_ ,” she gasps. “Your heart _stopped_ under my hands, Jaskier, I don’t _understand_.” 

Jaskier presses a kiss to her temple, meets Geralt’s gaze. “It’s a long story,” he says. “Come on, let’s get you inside. I’ll tell you over a drink. You still got that bottle of vodka I like?” 

Once more paperwork is sorted with the university, which necessitates another trip to another records office, Jaskier starts teaching again. The housing bursar informs him apologetically that he can’t have his old rooms back because they’re now occupied, but Jaskier just shrugs. “That’s okay,” he says. “I’ve got my eye on something else.” 

Something else, as it turns out, is a university-owned townhouse on the waterfront, with a small garden in the back and a view of the river. Jaskier’s belongings were all put into storage when he, well, died, so when the estates team digs them out again, Geralt helps him unpack, gets the furniture in just the right place, unfurls the rugs and hangs the paintings. He’s in the front room, lining books up on the shelves, when he hears a faint, pained noise from upstairs – and panic floods through him, hot and fierce, and he _runs_. 

Jaskier’s standing in the middle of a pile of boxes, sleeves rolled up, the glancing evening light catching in the silver of his hair. His skin is thinner than it used to be, there are more wrinkles around his eyes and less muscle in his body, but he’s standing there with Filavandrel’s lute in his shaking hands, fingers mapping carefully across the woefully out of tune strings, and all of a sudden Geralt has no idea how he managed to live for even a moment without him. “Jaskier,” he says, quiet, sacred. 

Jaskier looks up, his face caught in a grimace of pain. “I couldn’t play in Dehove,” he says, hurting, grieving. “Couldn’t sing. It was too much of a risk, both in terms of someone recognising me and because it would make me forget myself.” His hand is tight around the neck of his lute. “That night, at Natan’s birthday feast,” he says, staring at Geralt. “I danced with Laretta and I could feel you watching me – and I _wanted_ you to recognise me, I wanted it to be _done_ , I wanted the lies and the subterfuge to be _over_. So I sang. I sang along with that shitty band and that shitty bard, and stopping was the hardest thing in the world.” 

“I remember,” Geralt says. “I thought I was losing my mind.” 

Jaskier stares at him, vulnerability blazing in his face. “Stay with me, Geralt,” he says. “Here. In this house. Maybe not forever, I know you can’t stay forever, but for a while. A few months, a year. As long as you can.” His chest is heaving. “We lost so much time because of me,” he says. “Please, give me a chance to give it back to you.” 

Geralt crosses the room to him in a handful of strides, takes the lute from him, puts it down, and kisses him. “I’ll stay,” he says, and then, “I _want_ to stay.” 

Jaskier makes a noise deep in his throat, and grabs Geralt tighter. 

It’s not the end of it, their little Oxenfurt townhouse on the edge of the river. Jaskier teaches and Geralt works, on occasion, and they spend the nights relearning what it’s like to live a life together. Sometimes Geralt catches Jaskier staring out the window in the night, studying the streets around them for the watching eyes that they both know are there, but there’s no point in worrying about it. Dijkstra stays away – and if sometimes Geralt comes home before Jaskier to find the papers on his desk ruffled and the books out of order on the shelves, he makes sure everything’s right again by the time Jaskier’s lectures are finished. 

Geralt is pretty sure that Jaskier does the exactly same thing, from time to time, but neither of them brings it up. 

When winter approaches, that first year, Jaskier turns to Geralt with a strange look in his eyes and says, “I want you to go to Kaer Morhen.” 

Geralt’s lips twist. “No.” 

Jaskier gives him a look. “Geralt.” 

“Vesemir turned his back on you,” Geralt says. 

Darkness flickers through Jaskier’s eyes, just for a second. “Be that as it may,” he says, softer. “They’re your brothers, Geralt. You can’t just forget them.” 

“I can.”

Jaskier reaches up, runs a hand through Geralt’s hair. “I’m not a young man anymore,” he says, a strange cadence in his voice. “You barely look a day older than when I met you, but here I am, all grey hair and wrinkles.”

Geralt catches his wrist. “Stop.” 

“I’ll die one day,” Jaskier says, then laughs. “For real, this time. That’s inevitable, I’m human. And when I’m gone, you’ll need people in your life. You know that.” His lips twist. “After all, you’ve done it once before.” He frees his hand from Geralt’s grip, brushes his thumb against his cheek. “You need them,” he says. “And so what if I’m not welcome at Kaer Morhen? It’s a draughty old pile of rubble, anyway. Hardly my style.” – but the darkness in his gaze belies the lie. 

Geralt goes to Kaer Morhen that winter, just for a little while, for a few weeks before the snows set in properly. Lambert and Eskel are both there, along with Vesemir, whose gaze is shuttered whenever he looks at Geralt, and Geralt tells the two of them the whole story one night over vodka and gwent. 

Eskel shakes his head, moves a piece. “Vesemir will come around,” he says. “He’s your bard, Geralt. He’s earned our trust, we all know that.” 

Lambert just sits there, eyes glinting in the firelight, and doesn’t say a word. 

Geralt doesn’t stay long in the keep. He goes before the snow falls too thick, heads down through the mountains, rides and rides and rides until he’s outside their Oxenfurt townhouse, and when he opens to the sound of Jaskier’s singing and the distinctive burning smell of Ciri’s attempts at cooking, it feels like home. 

It’s not the end of it, of course, because this isn’t a story that has an ending. Life goes on, life unfurls the way it always does, and every time Geralt comes back to Oxenfurt on Roach’s back, coin in his pockets and the smell of death in his nostrils, every time he comes back to their house, their home, there’s a twist of fear in his chest, dark and angry. Every time he wonders if this will be the last time. 

But then he finds Jaskier again, strumming his lute in the golden cloisters of the university, sharing a drink with Shani in her rooms, scribbling in his lyric notebook at his desk, teaching or singing or just sleeping in their bed, the morning light catching in his silvering hair, and it’s enough. 

It’s more than enough.


End file.
